Cascade Effects
by Aspen Starlight
Summary: After Neal slips up, Peter is suspicious. When a new case comes in, can Neal protect his cover while still doing the job he was sent to do? The stakes are high, but with the help of some old friends he just might pull it off. Sequel to Vital Lies
1. With Heavy Hearts

**Title: Cascade Effects**

**Author: Lady Black-Malfoy**

**Rating: T**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Chuck or White Collar. If I did then this story would obviously happen, and Bryce Larkin would be alive. :D

**Summary:** After Neal slips up, Peter is suspicious and starts to look in to the past. In particular, Neal Caffrey's past. When a new case comes in, can Neal protect his cover while still doing the job he was sent to do? The stakes are higher than ever, but with the help of some old friends he just might be able to pull it off. Set after White Collar episode 1x10 "Vital Signs", and Chuck episode 2x22 "Chuck Versus The Ring". Sequel to **Vital Lies**. Thanks to my betas AwesomeQueenoftheLab, the-vampire-act, and lauraac2110!

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Prologue- With Heavy Hearts

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_Five__ Years Ago_

'You've reached Sarah Walker; leave a message after the beep and I'll get back to you.'_ The familiar feminine voice sounded cheerful __but echoed dully in his ears. __Bryce Larkin__ gripped his phone tightly, then continued walking down the sidewalk, this time at a slower pace. He was almost sure that she would have picked up, and when she __didn't__, Bryce just knew. Sarah had chosen to stay behind. She had chosen Chuck._

_Not that he blamed her. Bryce had meant it when he told Chuck that the man was truly the only person he trusted. There was something special about Chuck in that he was just a nice guy. During their Stanford years__,__ the two had formed a bond of camaraderie, and, despite the rough patches more recently, he had been genuinely sorry to have to leave so soon. He felt he should have said more, but he also knew that nothing__ –__ certainly not a few words alone__ –__ could replace __Chuck's__ lost years at Stanford._

_Good guys like Chuck __didn't__ deserve what Bryce had done to him. The fact that it was to protect Chuck helped Bryce live with himself, though that by no means meant he was okay with getting Chuck kicked out. After he had left, Bryce remembered how quiet the dorms had been. And they stayed that way for a long time, since Chuck had been so well liked._

_Now, he was actually a bit envious of Chuck__,__ if he was honest. The man had friends, family, a life-everything Bryce __couldn't__ have. And now, he had Sarah__,__ too._

_The phone in his hand beeped, and he had to gather himself before leaving the message._

"_I understand your choice, Sarah; __it's__ just hard to say goodbye__."__ Bryce had to pause for a moment as his throat tightened, then he continued. __"__I need you to promise me one thing, though. Just take care of Chuck for me. He needs you more than you think, and you need him more than __you'll__ admit__."_

_Walking up to the black Escalade that was his new car, Bryce finished softly. __"__And Sarah__? Don't__ wait up__."_

_Snapping the phone shut felt like the hardest thing he had ever done. He took the keys that had been left at the dead drop site out of his pocket and inserted it into the car. The lock clicked__,__ so he opened the door and hopped in, chucking the phone in the passenger seat before the door even shut behind him. It landed on a stack of papers with a crinkling sound, but for the moment he ignored what he already knew would be waiting for him._

_Frustration swept though Bryce, and he slammed both hands against the steering wheel a few times. The physical movements allowed him to vent his anger without shooting something. However, after the long day, he was now spent, and he leaned back against the leather seats, absentmindedly brushing a stray black lock out of his eyes._

_He had lied to them when he said the mission was at a consulate. Well, maybe __he'd__ attend a few parties at one, but definitely not as CIA agent Bryce Larkin. This mission was different than any other purely because so many things had to fall into place perfectly. Graham still had to completely read him in, but he knew the general premise, and he knew it was probably one the most intricate operations the CIA had ever developed._

_After running a hand over his face, Bryce grabbed the card and passport on the passenger seat. Raising his new __Driver's__ license to eye-level, using the dim light cast by a street lamp, he read the name of one of the many people he would become for the next month: Nicholas Halden. _

_

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_

Present Day

The morning sun beat heavily down on Central Park, where some had smartly escaped to the shade of the many trees dotted throughout the park. Towels and blankets were spread out, their owners reading quietly or picnicking with friends and family. A few brave runners that were jogging along the paths glistened with sweat, trying in vain to defeat the smothering heat wave. Sounds of water splashing and kids screeching with laughter as they ran through the cool water could be heard, while smiling parents watched on and, in some cases, even participated. Black dogs, gray dogs, short dogs, tall dogs, and all manner of dogs trotted with their owners. Tongues hung out as a consequence of the hard work, but they were offered some amount of relief from the nearby water fountains or water bottles. Overall, it was a normal summer day in the New York park; however, for one of the frequenters, it was about to turn a bit abnormal.

"Hey! Small fry, come on! Leave it!" a man dressed in sports shorts, Nike running shoes, and a plain gray tee scolded the small tan Chihuahua at the end of his leash. "You don't know what kind of mouths that hamburger touched. You'll get some food in a bit; have some water instead."

Jake Andrews bent down to one knee, opened his water bottle and allowed the grateful dog a few drinks. Finally finished, big brown eyes looked up and its tan tail started to wag with excitement. "I know, I know, you're welcome. Now, let's go back home to Mama so she can take you to the groomers. Why she insists on treating you like a girl, I will never understand." He stood up with a groan as his knees popped uncomfortably, then he glanced down at the expectant dog and demanded, "Just make sure to pick out the dark blue nail polish this time. Pink doesn't suit you." A happy bark echoed the dog's agreement, causing Jake to smile brightly.

"Come on then," he said, tugging gently on the leash to get the dog to follow, and small feet scurried to keep up with the longer legs of its owner. Two women joggers passed by, and Jake mentally winced at the cooing that followed over the unique pairing, for it was true that Jake Andrews wasn't really the type of man you might normally associate with such a small animal.

Standing at six foot, four inches, Jake was a formidable presence. Broad shouldered and muscular, he looked like the type of man who could easily pass as a bodyguard- a rather dumb bodyguard, perhaps; however, his deep-set brown eyes sparkled with a carefully hidden intelligence. This happened to prove advantageous in his line of work. Jake worked as a computer systems specialist for Castle Security Inc., a security firm based in Washington, DC. Stationed at one of the New York offices, he took care of installing, configuring, and supervising computer hardware and software, among 'other things'. Those 'other things' had nothing to do with his work at Castle though. Surprisingly, the 'other things' happened to be related to the fact that he walked his dog in that area of Central Park.

Strolling under the Willowdell Arch, he casually glanced at one of the nearby street posts. The only outward indication that something wasn't right was the sudden death grip on the dog's leash. Inwardly, his heart rate skyrocketed and his mind began to race. _'Looks__ like __we'll__ have to skip the donut shop this morning.__'_Jake thought. At least his wife would be pleased.

Fifteen grueling minutes later, he was jumping up the stone steps to a large two story brick house with the little Chihuahua trailing at his heels. He opened the cherry wood door, then ushered the dog in, snapping the door shut behind him. Once safely inside the entrance area Jake dropped the leash, allowing the Chihuahua to just run off up the stairs. Ignoring the dog, Jake jogged down the immediate carpeted hallway, his running shoes squeaking slightly.

"Honey, you're home early." A woman's voice called from the room he was headed towards. Finally stepping into the room, Jake clutched the doorjamb and let his guard down when he caught sight of his wife.

Intelligent bright blue eyes shone out from underneath meticulously curled blonde hair. Elise Andrews had a lean figure and was dressed in a dark blue sundress with strappy silver heels. The blue contrasted sharply against her pale skin so that combined with the delicate bone structure in her face and the almost over-bleached white teeth, she looked like the New York elite housewife that she played. When her husband walked in, she glanced up from the couch, where she was reclined reading a book.

"I need the Key. Something's happened," Jake said from his tense position in the doorway.

An expression of surprise briefly crossed her pretty face before it hardened into something more serious. Quickly, Elise closed the book, and as she stood up, she raised a manicured hand up to the silver necklace that adorned her neck, then with a yank ripped it off. The chain broke, but it wasn't the chain that mattered. Lying in her palm was a small silver heart – a heart that held a secret. Embedded in the small ornament was an RFID tag.

RFID's, or radio frequency ID's, were rather simple tags. They used radio waves to either track or identify something. Libraries used them in their materials for security purposes, farmers used them as ear tags in their animals, and the Andrews used theirs for identity confirmation. The nice thing about having it concealed inside Elise's locket was that the silver prevented detection since it blocked the radio waves from getting out. In this case, it was much more secure than fingerprint security systems.

Silently, Elise strode to Jake and handed him the small heart. A tight smile passed between the two as their hands briefly made contact when he snatched it from her slim hand, and then he hastened from the room into their study, where a handsome cherry desk was resting near a bookcase. He bent down and gently scraped his fingernail between the locket's openings. With a click, it exposed the small device hidden inside, which he then held in front of a gold false lock. Like many decorative desks, the cherry desk had a drawer that wasn't meant to open. But this particular one did open, as long as the heart shaped locket with the RF tag was held in front of the special reader hidden in the false lock.

Inside the desk, a larger lock clicked, and the drawer dropped away from the top of the desk, allowing a laptop to be seen. Jake set the drawer on the ground, then lifted the laptop clear before setting it on the polished desktop. He drew a desk chair over, reached down into the drawer again, and picked up a piece of paper that had a long list of e-mail addresses. Those addresses were special. They were called accommodation addresses, and had no obvious connection to an intelligence agency. Agents were often given them so that they could safely pass intelligence material or other sensitive information to where it needed to be. And sensitive information was what Jake Andrews – or retired CIA officer David Landers – had. Because while it may look like he had been just walking the family dog, he was really watching a signal site. On that lamppost that he had gone by earlier, and the one that destroyed his donut shop plans, was a single chalk mark in the shape of an X. Retired CIA officer Brittney Asker, also known as Elise Andrews, glanced over her husband's shoulder to see what he was typing. When she caught sight of the black words, her own heart jumped into her throat and she put her hands onto his shoulders.

"Bryce will be okay, won't he?" she asked softly. Strained silence was her only answer.

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**AN: **I will post the next chapter in about a week, probably less. Make sure to check out my forums also, since I'm posting things related to the story like time-lines and mission profiles as the story goes on. Reviews are welcomed!


	2. Breaking and Entering

**Title: Cascade Effects**

**Author: Lady Black-Malfoy**

**Rating: T (rating may change)**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Chuck or White Collar. If I did then this story would obviously happen, and Bryce Larkin would be alive. :D

**Summary:** After Neal slips up, Peter is suspicious and starts to look in to the past. In particular, Neal Caffrey's past. When a new case comes in, can Neal protect his cover while still doing the job he was sent to do? The stakes are higher than ever, but with the help of some old friends he just might be able to pull it off. Set after White Collar episode 1x10 "Vital Signs", and Chuck episode 3x05 "Chuck Versus the First Class". Sequel to **Vital Lies**. Thanks to my betas AwesomeQueenoftheLab, the-vampire-act, and lauraac2110!

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This chapter I was never happy with, so I went back and added some more substance to it. I'm slowly going over all the chapters as I'm writing more, so there will be a few more minor edits. Fair warning, there may be minor discrepancies in chapters because of this, but they shouldn't be too bad. If they are, let me know. :D

**Edited**** : 4/21/11**

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Chapter One - Breaking and Entering

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Neal Caffrey sighed heavily as he took out his keys and went to unlock June's front door. It seemed like the older woman was out tonight. The lights in the house were all out, and it was eerily silent. For a moment, as he opened the door and walked in, he was slightly disoriented from both the silence and the pressing darkness. It had to be at least midnight, and, other than the illumination from the streetlights, it was pitch black in the big house. Neal shut the door quietly and leaned against it while he allowed his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. After a few minutes, he could finally see, and he took out his phone to shut off the security system to the downstairs area. He had wondered why June, his landlady, never had a system installed inside, as Neal had always made sure his space was secured. After all, he had many things to hide.

So, when he had first moved in, he had made some calls and was able to get a specialist to come in to wire the house while June was out. It was the latest technology and very secure. No one other than him knew it was even installed.

Cameras the size of ladybugs had been installed in very strategic places around the house, along with biometric sensors. The biometric system was special and one of his favorite new security measures.

Normally, when someone came into a house, they might call out a name or something to gain attention of the person living there. For this reason, microphones were hidden near the cameras to pick up voices and then scan the voice patterns to identify a person. If they did not match to the samples Neal had picked up from Peter, El, June, and Moz, then an alert would be sent to Neal's phone, along with video of the house. Getting the voice samples had been fun, Neal remembered, as he had had to get all of their voiceprints for the database. He got them to say certain sentences for their unique ID's, and then programmed the system to record them. The new system was so advanced that even a recording would not allow entry. If the person who entered never spoke, but triggered the motion sensors, then the computer would also send the alert out to Neal. When someone was home the system was disabled, at least downstairs. Upstairs was a little different.

On Neal's door to his area of the house, he had another biometric system installed. His doorknob did more than just open the door. Underneath the gold paint where the locking mechanism was supposed to be, a special sensor had been inserted. It required no contact, and, using a special light-transmission technique, it scanned the veins in a hand. The technique was much more accurate than fingerprint scanning, and a lot more discreet. The same people who had voice patterns in the database had scans of their palms also made. Each had opened his door at some point, and he just had the system save their scans. The key was really only for show, for once the computer verified the vein print, it automatically opened. Sleight of hand took care of the fake key, and his friends were none the wiser. If someone unauthorized tripped it, then it would send out another alert and lock the door automatically.

He entered the code that would disable the system into his phone and glanced at the display. In the very corner of the screen, a tiny red dot that was similar to the recording symbol flashed green, and Neal snapped it shut once he was satisfied the system would not trigger from his entrance. He then took his hat off before casually flipping it onto the banister at the base of the stairs. Silently, he went up the ornate staircase, and once in the darkened hall, he walked to his door with his hands in his pockets. A sudden noise from behind the wall to his room, however, caused him to pause in the middle of the hall. He'd been trained to be able to pick up even the faintest sounds and distinguish what type of person they might belong to. He knew that women tended to step lighter and had a smaller stride length when they walked. Men, on the other hand–unless trained to mask their footsteps–were very heavy-footed with a larger stride length. Neal himself had learned to keep his steps completely silent when the situation called for stealth.

Sure enough, he could make out light footsteps. However, whoever was currently inside his room had a large stride, so Neal guessed it was a man attempting to sneak around. Momentarily cursing at himself in his head for almost walking into a possible ambush–as he had let his guard down slightly–he knew that his system must have been bypassed somehow. Skilled at getting into places he shouldn't be, Neal knew that every security system had flaws that could be manipulated to gain entry. As he took a deep breath, his mind raced, calculating just where, and who, the possible assailant was and how he could possibly subdue them without getting injured.

He knew that it couldn't be either Peter or El, as they were both at home, and June would never sneak into his room. Mozzie was a possibility. He frowned though when he thought that sneaking was not really Mozzie's style. Except, of course, that one time when Neal had first moved into June's. The shady man had just been lucky that Neal was not one to shoot first and ask questions later.

Finally making a decision, Neal reached out with his left hand and touched the doorknob. A quiet click indicated the lock was undone, as his hand had been scanned and his identity verified. Listening for a moment longer, he quieted his breathing and was able to make out a slight sound to the very right of him behind the door. He almost grinned, as the assailant seemed to be either stupid or just unobservant of the fact that he was home, but then sobered up quickly when he remembered the unknown person had gotten past his high-tech security system.

Silently, Neal shifted his weight so that he could move easier once he opened the door. Finally satisfied that he was ready to surprise the unknown man, Neal took another deep breath and flung open the door. Right away, he ducked into a roll and heard a swoosh of air pass the spot where his head would have been if he had still been standing up straight. While his attacker had overbalanced from the attempted strike, Neal had already moved. He snapped up from the somersault as the attacker crashed into the doorframe, the echoing crack of breaking wood soon following. Quickly taking in the man's position facing away from him, Neal struck out, his right foot connecting solidly with the back of the other's thigh. The man released a grunt as his leg buckled from the spasm the hit had caused, and Neal watched as he slid to the ground, still clinging to the doorframe. He moved into a combat position again, just in case the man attacked back. Taking the quick moment of peace, he observed his assailant.

It was dark in the apartment, but being that it was New York, some light from the city illuminated the room. All Neal could really make out though was the man's dark hair. He cocked his head. It looked vaguely familiar for some reason.

"Who are you?" Neal asked, his voice strong despite the panic that was bubbling up. The adrenaline racing through his veins keep some of it at bay, and was keeping his mind focused. A deep and slightly pained laugh suddenly filled the dark room. Neal's racing mind froze, and he lowered his raised arms before whispering, "You!"

"Me," the attacker said, sounding amused. Taking advantage of Neal's paralyzed state, the man swiftly kicked out the consultant's legs from underneath him. Crashing to the ground on his back, Neal's reactions were still tempered by shock, and he was not able to protect himself in time, as the man moved quickly. A large piece of wood was abruptly thrust under his neck, like a knife, and the familiar attacker was on top of him, pinning him down securely. Stuck, his bright grey eyes gazed into sparkling brown.

"Not a real climatic way to go, death by splinter," the man whispered into Neal's ear, breath tickling the side of his neck. He chuckled when Neal's eyes flashed. "Death by splinter cell would have been more likely. For you at least, Bryce."

"Daniel Shaw, what a pleasure." Neal sneered, turning his head away and jerking his arms in an attempt to get free. Unfortunately, the man above him was stronger, and he just got pinned down harder. He made a mental note to talk to June about maybe getting carpet installed. Wood was so hard on the back. "Now, get the hell off of me before I do something I really won't regret."

"That isn't any way to greet an old friend, Bryce," the dark-haired man said, then glanced up with a thoughtful expression on his face. "What happened to those manners of yours?"

"You're one to talk," he snarled back. "Breaking and entering isn't a real polite way to stop and say hi, now, is it?" When Shaw opened his mouth to respond, Neal continued. "And I did warn you."

It was immensely gratifying to watch the man's eyes widen in sudden realization, before they bugged out slightly as Neal kneed him in the groin. A whoosh of air escaped Shaw, and in the dim light the consultant could see a red blush to his face. With a huge push, he was able to turn the tables and heave the gasping man off of him before seizing the large piece of wood that had been dropped on the floor. He would have to think up some excuse for the damage to the frame–June was a smart lady, and Neal Caffrey was not known for being violent.

"I hate to say I told you so," he said brightly, expertly spinning the wood between his fingers like he would a knife and watching the man moan in pain, "but I told you so."

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Five minutes and a bag of frozen peas later, Neal was sitting with Shaw at his dining room table and nursing a glass of scotch. The apartment was dark still, only illuminated by a small table lamp. It still provided enough light for the consultant to get a good look at his old instructor.

Daniel Shaw could have jumped straight out of the pages of a Superman comic book, with the extremely muscular physique he possessed and the jet-black locks. In fact, the only thing missing was the curlicue and spandex. His face seemed sharp, the dark brown eyes lending a bit of mystery and danger to a man that thrived on secrets.

Like many agents with the Central Intelligence Agency, he appeared to carry an unseen weight on his shoulders; one Neal was intimately familiar with. The dark bags under his eyes only accentuated that, although Neal was sure he looked much the same. It had been too long since he had gotten a good night's rest. He watched as the man swirled his own scotch around in the glass, the dark amber-colored liquid flowing slowly down the sides.

Neal did not break out the hard liquor often, having come to prefer wine over the past few years, but when he did it usually heralded heavy conversation. Either that, or heavy hands, but that would most certainly not be the case here. And for Shaw, that might not be the case for a while, if the pain the man seemed to be in was any indication.

"You've gotten slow." Somehow Shaw made it sound accusing, despite the fact that his voice cracked pathetically towards the end as he shifted the bag of peas on his lap. Neal laughed bitterly, the sound echoing in the small room.

"That was one hell of a shock, Shaw." He leaned back in the wooden chair, reaching out for his own glass of scotch. Eyeing the man he said shrewdly, "Five years is a long time. What are you doing here now? In my apartment."

The man hesitated, which caught Neal's attention, but then said, "Beckman sent me."

"You're working with Beckman now? When did that happen?" Neal was shocked.

"After the Intersect 2.0 incident," Shaw said, and Neal's eyes widened. "Beckman wanted someone intimately familiar with the way the Ring worked, and she bought me in."

The mention of the Intersect had surprised him, since the odd computer was such as closely guarded secret–with good reason. The Intersect system was a huge computer system that held information encoded in pictures, in particular government information and intelligence. It contained data from every federal agency there was, and more than a few agencies that were not supposed to exist. However, a majority of the data had been collected by the Central Intelligence Agency and the National Security Agency. After 9/11, the two agencies had been ordered to share all intelligence. Since they needed a place to store huge amounts of data, they had needed a way to compress and analyze the information quickly. What the NSA had not known was that the CIA had already been in the process of creating such a system.

The Intersect Project, as it had been called, had been headed by the brilliant computer scientist Stephen Bartowski. The idea was to place the information as pictures within pictures, where one picture was made of thousands of others. By encoding the information that way, they would have the ability to download the data into a human subject, like an external flash drive would store information–subliminal imaging, in other words. Having been studying the subject intensely at Stanford University, a much younger Bryce Larkin had been recruited to both the project and the Agency after his teacher had spotted his interest. While everyone was aware that the CIA actively recruited on campuses, it had been a surprise for Bryce to learn that the quiet Professor Flemming was one of those involved.

So, after almost a yearlong clearance process filled with background checks, polygraphs, and medical exams, he had been sent to a large CIA training facility located in Virginia. Affectionately referred to as The Farm, the instructors there had trained him in a wide range of skills, from firearms handling to martial arts and seduction. After his training, he worked full time on the Intersect Project. That work had eventually led him to an approved project of his own creation–the Omaha Project. Named after their base of operations–Omaha, Nebraska–the project was very similar to the Intersect one. The only difference was the type of information encoded in the pictures. Instead of informational data, it stored physical data.

Martial arts, escape and evading techniques, driving skills, languages, art skills, and everything in-between. Techniques and information about each skill had been collected and broken down into millions of pictures within pictures. The potential was staggering. A human downloading the information could have what was essentially hundreds of years of experience across various skill sets at will. They also had the potential to be anyone they wanted, which came in handy for missions with covers. He had called it the Origin system.

And he had worked on both projects until Stephen Bartowski had mysteriously disappeared, with the rogue intelligence agencies Fulcrum and the Ring suddenly appearing shortly afterward. Immediately, the Intersect Project had been shelved, while the Omaha Project had been accelerated. They already had all the intelligence they needed on the groups; all they needed was a way to stop them. Unfortunately, the Intersect project had been compromised, and it was decided to just destroy it. So, the situation had literally blown up, with his help, of course. He had, however, been able to save a copy of the computer, and he sent it to who he thought could deal with it–Stephen Bartowski's son, and his friend from Stanford, Chuck. Then he was shot by NSA Agent John Casey, which had not been fun. His chest hurt just remembering it.

"So, you work with…." he trailed off, the word catching in his throat, but Shaw seemed to understand what he was trying to say.

"Chuck and Sarah? Saying their names won't kill you." Shaw looked amused. "Although, I have to ask."

"Yes…"

"Why aren't you dead?" It was asked so bluntly that Neal flinched back. "Last I heard, Bryce Larkin had been shot in the chest and killed by the Ring. I must admit, it was a bit of a surprise, even for me, to hear that you were still alive. From the way Sarah and Chuck recounted it, and the reports I read, it was a pretty convincing death. How many times have you 'died' now, anyway?"

"Too many," Neal replied, his jaw muscles jumping. The first time he had been shot and killed, he had actually been killed. But he had been brought back to life, purely because Fulcrum thought he was the Intersect. At the time, the lie had been the only thing keeping him alive and the real Intersect, his old friend Chuck Bartowski, safe.

"Did you know that Sarah even went to Lisbon to bury your ashes? I assumed at the time that she went off grid for Chuck, but lo and behold, it was for Bryce Larkin. She was pretty cut up about it, too," Shaw remarked as he picked up a coin that was lying on the table. The dark-haired man slouched back against his seat and began to spin the quarter around his fingers. Neal stayed tense in his own seat, waiting to hear the inevitable question. Suddenly, the movement stopped, and dark brown eyes gazed into Neal's grey ones before Shaw spoke.

"This means she never knew the Intersect room was a set up." He set the coin down, and then leaned over the table towards Neal. "I wonder, how did you keep such a big secret from them?"

"She wouldn't have left Chuck," Neal said simply. "I saw no reason to tell her, and besides, compartmentalization was important in this case. The Ring was getting a bit too close for comfort, and the Roark situation screwed everything up. So, we needed to get Chuck to upload 2.0."

Neal shifted his attention to the bookcase, where the Bordeaux bottle sat. Staring at it always relaxed him for some reason. The current conversation was painful, and the memories were even worse.

"From past experience, we knew he could handle it, despite the fact that it was different than the others." He scowled at nothing in particular, then continued, "And there was no way Chuck would willingly download the program again. He'd just gotten it out. Plus, with me going undercover again, there was no guarantee that I wouldn't get killed. Beckman wanted another Intersect out there sooner rather than later."

"But you had previous experience, also," Shaw pointed out. "With 'Origin', right? You guys put it in 2.0."

Neal grimaced and said, "We had to. In fact, the original plan had been to add it to the first Intersect, but then Fulcrum decided to interfere."

"And the plan blew up."

"The Intersect blew up," Neal reminded him. He tipped his chair back onto its legs and continued. "I hadn't worked on that project yet, though. The NSA was wary about Omaha and, well, you've met Casey. He isn't exactly fond of us CIA agents."

A large grin crossed Shaw's face when he caught the undeniable resentment carefully hidden in his friend's voice. NSA Agent John Casey was always a sore topic for Bryce Larkin, but that may have been due to the NSA agent shooting him. Shaw figured he himself would be rather pissed, to say the least. It just wasn't the same as shooting yourself in the shoulder, that was for sure.

"Casey has softened a bit over the years, you know," he said, ignoring Neal's expression of disbelief. "Not a lot, mind you, but he doesn't feel like shooting me anymore, which is a big difference, trust me."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Neal muttered, releasing a small snort of laughter.

"Which will hopefully be never," Shaw commented under his breath. Uncomfortably shifting the ice bag in his lap again, he asked, "Hadn't you downloaded the program by then?"

"Only Kate and I had been able to download Origin like the Intersect. Sarah had been scheduled to the following year, then the plan obviously changed. We wanted to be sure it was safe before more people used it, and Kate volunteered," Neal said, a frown marring his features. "It was safe, of course, but we had to be positive it worked. Kate and I began to test it in the field, posing as different aliases we created to fit the profiles. You probably know that the CIA had already started to build up our reputations."

"Operation Cascade, right? You were looking for Ring connections in the criminal underground."

"It wasn't originally The Ring we were looking for," Neal admitted. "At first, it was to monitor potential terrorists operating in the States. The CIA was wary at first, since usually just the FBI operates domestically. Then Fulcrum and The Ring came along, and our mission changed a bit."

"As did mine," Shaw said, and he began tapping his fingers against the table, contemplating all that Neal had confessed to him. Beckman hadn't mentioned much to him about Omaha or Cascade. She'd really only given him the files, which he'd perused during the flight over from California. He knew it was highly classified information, and reading it on a plane packed with people was never a good idea. At least he got to catch up on some sleep. "So this was all before the Intersect blew up?"

"Well, Graham was in charge of the project, but after his death Beckman took over. Technically, I'm a liaison officer between the CIA and the NSA, since Beckman has full control over the operation. I also work for the FBI as a consultant, which you already know," Neal said as he ran his hands through his hair in frustration, messing the coiffed 'do even more than it already was. He felt like he couldn't sit anymore, so he got up and shoved his chair back. "I have to be careful to avoid anyone that I might have worked with before. Trust me, that's more difficult than you might think."

Shaw watched his friend move to stand in front of one of the glass-paned doors in the apartment and cross his arms almost defensively. There was something Neal was upset about, other than avoiding agents. Shadows concealed the man's face from Shaw's position slouched on a chair, so he couldn't get a good read on his facial expression. However, Neal's body language spoke for him. After five minutes of silence, Shaw finally broke it by asking softly, "Why am I here, Bryce?

There was a long extended paused, before Neal spoke reluctantly, "During the last case we ran into a problem." He turned to glance at Shaw. "I had a bit of a run-in with a sedative."

"You were sedated?" Shaw said, his eyes suddenly dancing with laughter as he leaned forward over the table. He paused though, and grimaced when the movement jarred his injury. "From what I remember, Bryce Larkin and sedatives don't mix well. At the Farm, we always called you 'Loose–'"

"–'Lips Larkin'. Yes, I know," Neal said, rolling his eyes as if used to the name. "I'm a spy, Dan, not an idiot. And it's Neal Caffrey, not Bryce Larkin. You should know that by now."

"Right, sorry," Shaw muttered, not sounding sorry at all. "So I'm guessing you let something slip then. Must be serious if you had to contact us."

"Chuck," Neal just said miserably.

"What about Chuck, Neal?" Shaw asked. He had gone from joking to serious in a matter of seconds.

"I mentioned Chuck," Neal choked out, finally turning back around. His eyes were slightly wild, even though he tried to keep his emotions calm.

"Just the name?" Shaw questioned from his chair, an expression of confusion contorting his face. "If it was just his name, shouldn't a little damage control be enough?"

"No, I also told Peter that I got Chuck kicked out of Stanford. Mentioned something about General Beckman, then I told him that I got shot. Hell, I even talked about Sarah!" Neal exclaimed as he began to pace in front of the table again. He glared at Shaw. "And you don't know Peter like I do."

Shaw winced while he listened to Neal's small rant. This put an unpleasant spin on things, although he figured it really was inevitable after five years of Bryce being undercover.

"Well, he's an FBI agent. I assume he'll investigate; after all, it's called the Federal Bureau of Investigation for a reason, Neal. But you're worried that the cover won't hold up, am I right?" Shaw asked, and then thought a bit more. "No, that can't just be it. There's something more," he continued slowly, cocking his head as he assessed his friend. Suddenly, it was like a light bulb went off inside the agent's head. "It's Peter, isn't it? You've become 'friends', and when Peter does find out who you really are, you're worried that it won't be the same."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Neal snapped, not looking at his guest. The pacing stopped, and Neal had his back to Shaw again.

"Ah, but I think you do," Shaw declared. He spoke more softly, "I know how it is, Neal. I've played the game. Spies are supposed to trust no one, yet you've begun to trust Peter Burke like you trusted Chuck. Am I right?"

Stormy grey eyes suddenly bored into his, and Neal walked towards Shaw, practically spitting fire. He placed his hands on the chair's armrests, effectively trapping him and asked, "What do you know about trust, Shaw? From what I remember, you never trusted anyone but Eve."

"I know more about it than you think," Shaw said lowly, his face contorted in pain. It wasn't a physical pain, but a mental pain. The fight left Neal at those words. His face screwed up in an expression of sorrow, and he released the chair before backing away and opened his mouth to apologize, but Shaw harshly cut him off. "Don't. Just don't. Forget it."

"Right," Neal whispered, miserably watching his old instructor slouch deeper into the chair. That comment had been out of line. Furthermore, he knew it wasn't a topic he should have bought up. The larger man's mask was already firmly in place by the time he sat back down, and silence filled the room again. Neal watched as Shaw moved the bag of peas.

"Have you heard from Kate lately?"

The calmly spoken question startled him slightly; as a consequence, it took him a moment to respond.

"Yes, actually. She had a break in the case, apparently," Neal said slowly, then strode over to the couch where he kept the book he needed. He dug it out and flipped to the page where there was an entry. Just from looking at the worn paper when Neal brought the book over to the table, Shaw could tell the page had been viewed a lot.

A single entry covered the whole page, and as he skimmed the information, he caught Neal's eyes, then asked incredulously, "A music box? What do they want with that?"


	3. Flashes of Insight

**A/N:** Sorry for the later update, but I had to go and change a few things since I didn't like the layout of it before. I'm not sure how much I still like it, but it's better. By the way, if you've seen tonights episode already then you've probably seen the promo for next week. I know watching it reminded me of a certain CIA agent that 'died' in the Intersect room, what about you? Ha-ha, at any rate, I'm so excited for it! If you'd like to see the photomosiac art piece that I've included in this chapter, google Robert Silvers. He does some really amazing and interesting work with photomosaics. Intersect flashes are in _italics_. Hope you guys like this one. It's a bit shorter than the others, however, the story will begin to pick up. Thanks to my betas AwesomeQueenoftheLab, and the-vampire-act.

* * *

Chapter Two - Flashes of Insight

* * *

The man had an evil grin on his pale face as he watched his prey. Slowly, he stalked closer, pausing as a floorboard squeaked. When the prey in the bed just snored a little louder, the man continued his approach. He knew that there was probably a knife hidden under the pillow-or somewhere close at least- but he was confident enough in his ability to disarm the prey before he did any damage. Plus, he knew that the prey happened to have gotten a bit drunk the night before. Hangovers sucked, and he almost laughed in glee as he finally he made it to the side of the bed, gazing down at the person in it. He mentally counted down to three before upending the bucket of water he held over the prey's head.

With a gasp and much sputtering, Neal Caffrey was violently woken from the deep sleep he'd been in. Slightly disoriented from the sudden onslaught of light-not to mention water-he sat in the wet bed while his brain caught up with the situation. Well, he tried to; however, the painful throbbing in his head combined with the sudden nausea his quick movements had caused made him basically useless. Immediately, he regretted the bottle of wine – or two – he'd had last night. Familiar laughter filled the small room, and Neal now knew who his assailant had been.

"Sha-" Neal started, then cleared his throat when he had trouble getting the words out. It felt like cotton had been stuffed into his mouth, and it took a moment before he was able to form words.

"Shaw, what the hell?" he asked hoarsely as he sat in the now wet bed and rubbed his eyes. Water dripped from his hair down to his bare chest, forming a small puddle in his lap as the two streams connected together. It was unpleasantly cold, causing gooseflesh to break out along his skin. Notably, a thin white line stood out where it stretched across his left shoulder to the middle of his chest. Normally, he covered it up with some kind of makeup just in case it would be exposed. He really didn't feel like fueling Peter's suspicions anymore, and the gunshot wound would do that.

"Just like old times," said the grinning CIA agent, tossing a towel at the dripping wet Neal. Shaw then released the bucket that had been holding the water, and it hit the ground with a clang that seemed to reverberate through Neal's aching head. The agent ignored the moan of pain coming from the man in the bed, then walked around the bed towards the dresser and began to open drawers.

"By old times, I'm assuming you mean your 'wake the trainee up by pouring freezing cold water over them' routine at The Farm. Then yeah, just like old times," Neal said once the pain dulled again, eyeing the man's back with displeasure as he began to towel off. "Shouldn't you have left by now?"

"Nah, I kind of like it here. There's a great view, good food, and June seems nice," Shaw said, casually picking out a white button up shirt and throwing it on the bed where it wasn't wet. Neal went very still, slowly lowering the towel from his face. His bloodshot grey eyes drilled into the back of Shaw's head, who, of course, was completely oblivious.

"You've met June," Neal said lowly, phrasing it as more of a statement than a question. "What happened to 'out of sight, out of mind'?"

"Beckman cleared me," Shaw replied, shrugging as he headed over to Neal's closet. "You didn't think she wouldn't do a little research on the woman who is allowing you to live in her home for nothing? She wanted to make sure you wouldn't be compromised at all and that anyone stopping over wouldn't be questioned too much. By the way, if June asks, we're 'good' friends."

"I'm sure she believed that," Neal mumbled sarcastically; then he chucked the wet towel at Shaw, who was still digging in his closet. Even though he couldn't see the man's face, he knew that there was a smirk there, which only made him sigh in frustration. Slowly, he moved to the side of the bed, hissing as his feet touched the cold floor. The nausea had thankfully abated to tolerable levels, so he was able to stand without feeling like he was going to be sick. "Why are you in my closet?"

"Well, your FBI handler texted you five minutes ago saying he'll be here in half an hour. So, you need to get moving. Want the hat today?" Shaw asked, a black fedora hanging on the tip of a finger. Neal grabbed the hat and flung it on the bed, pushing the tall man out of the way. The agent laughed, ignoring the glare Neal shot his way;then he strode over to the dining room to pour himself a cup of coffee. June had gratefully provided the agent with a platter of fruits and breads, along with coffee. _Amazing coffee_, Shaw thought as he took a sip out of the mug in his hands.

"I can dress myself, you know," Neal called out from the bedroom.

Five minutes later, the consultant came out, dressed to impress. Shaw looked over his friend appreciatively, then held out a cup of coffee and a piece of toast on a napkin.

"Sorry I doubted you," he said, grinning at the annoyed look on Neal's face.

Neal reluctantly accepted the food, turning his back on the agent and heading over to the glass doors. For the next few minutes, the sound of eating filled the room before Neal spoke.

"Listen, I'm sorry I was such a jerk last night. It was just a bit of a shock to see you here," Neal admitted, his back still turned so the agent couldn't see his face, "I mean, come on Shaw! I've spent the last five years trying to distance myself from everything- then this happens."

"It's a complicated situation, to be sure," Shaw started slowly, as if thinking of how to respond. He was closely watching his friend, and he stepped a little closer. "But you've got to admit that getting those five years has helped you gain better control over the Intersect and yourself. I do understand, though, Bryce."

As he raised the cup of coffee to his lips and gazed outside at the new day, Neal quietly said, "I'm not sure anyone will ever understand, Dan."

* * *

_Tap, tap, tap, tap, pause, tap, tap, tap, tap, pause._

FBI Special Agent Peter Burke ceased his impatient tapping against the wheel of the car and looked out the front car window when he caught movement. A dark haired man looking at his cell phone had just turned the corner and was casually strolling down the sidewalk. From what the agent could see, the man was dressed in tan cargo shorts, black flip-flops, and a black shirt. In other words, this was not his target. As he neared the car, the man looked up. His dark eyes caught Peter's, and then he nodded before going back to his phone. Peter politely nodded back, watching the man walk out of sight. When he turned his attention back to the mansion he'd been observing, he finally saw his target. Unlike the casual dress of the man who just walked by, this man dressed much differently. Black slacks complemented a crisp white shirt underneath a tight black vest, while a dark fedora completed the look. He watched as the man slowly strode down the sidewalk, then stepped down the curb to open the car door. Warm air surged into the car while cold air from the air conditioning flooded out.

"Morning, Peter," Neal Caffrey said as he slid into the seat of Peter's Taurus, slamming the door behind him.

Now that he was in the car, Peter realized something was off – Neal looked tired. Dark smudges surrounded his usually bright eyes, and he was rather pale in Peter's opinion. He'd almost missed it at first glance because the hat had hid most of the man's face. Sometimes, he thought the fedora was a comfort blanket, not that he would ever voice it. The man was waiting for his response, so he snapped out of his observations and said evenly, "Neal. Rough night last night?"

"Just a late start," Neal replied evasively, then took the hat off, throwing it on the dash. As he buckled the seat belt, he asked, "Should I be happy that you're picking me up today?"

"Well, that depends on your definition of happy," Peter replied, and after checking his mirrors, began to pull out of the parking spot. "However, I think you'll like this."

"We have another case already?"

The agent's lips quirked up at the incredulous tone, and he said, "Just got it this morning. Hughes was going to give it to Macy's team, but he thought we were better suited for it. File's in the back."

"Wow. I have a feeling my skills are going to be put to use today," Neal said slightly sarcastically, his voice muffled due to him reaching towards the back of the car for the tan file. "Do I get to break into a building again?"

Peter suddenly swerved to avoid a car, causing Neal to bounce around. The consultant couldn't see it, but a small smirk crept onto the agent's face at Neal's misfortune. "No, so don't even think about it. You've done enough breaking and entering this week," Peter answered sternly.

The movement from swerving had jarred a picture out of the file, which fell onto the floor of the car where it landed face down so all he could see was the white back. He set the file in his lap and reached back to retrieve the picture. Slim fingers stretched to catch hold of it, and he pulled his body back up. As he flipped the picture around, Neal snorted and said, "I think you mean we've do-"

_A photo mosaic of _The Starry Night_, the image fractured into the thousands of different smaller pictures contained in the larger one, satellite coverage of a nuclear power plant, the space shuttle, a student ID card from Cambridge, a signature on the back, the same signature pinned inside a file marked CIA, a man's picture, blonde short hair, extremely pale skinned, hooded brown eyes, that man pulling a gun, three bodies covered with white sheets-_

"-eal! Hey, you okay? You kind of drifted off for a moment there." Peter was talking, but it took Neal a moment to come back into full awareness after the flash.

"Hmm, what? Oh, sorry," he murmured, looking away from the picture. His now slow-moving brain rushed to come up with an excuse as he registered Peter's question. "The picture just brought back a few memories, I guess. Van Gogh was always one of my favorites."

For a moment, it looked like Peter wasn't buying the quick excuse, then he just shook his head and said, "I'm sure it was. Read the rest of the file and tell me what you think."

Silence filled the car for the next five minutes, only broken by the sound of pages being turned or the occasionally muted beep of a horn from outside. Inside, Neal's mind raced. He didn't even really need to look over the file, since the Intersect had already provided almost all of the answers.

Aaron Carson was a photo mosaic artist – he took smaller pictures and made a larger picture out of them. While in college at Cambridge, he'd created a computer program that looked at pixel coloring in a digital picture and then categorized them into similar colors. The artist, in this case Carson, used those colors to 'paint' the picture. It had put a new spin on 'art', and his work was in high demand now. According to the FBI's file, Carson's studio had been broken into last night. A remake of Van Gogh's _Starry Night_ had been stolen, and since the studio was high-security, the case had quickly filtered up to the White Collar Unit. In fact, the security was almost parallel to what Neal had done at his apartment. Voice prints, vein recognition to get in, security cameras and microphones guarded the building.

What the White Collar Unit didn't know, but Neal now did, was that Aaron Carson was a suspected Ring operative, and the Central Intelligence Agency had been quietly looking into him for the past four years. He'd first appeared on their radar with the start of the Intersect projects, the CIA trying to recruit him for help programming the images. Carson refused, claiming that he was just an artist, wanting nothing to do with the government. At the time, Carson had been in the States on an employment-based green card, so the CIA threatened to pull the card. Stubborn, Carson still refused, and in turn he threatened to expose the project. Reluctantly, the CIA backed down. Weeks later, the man's girlfriend had been in a devastating car accident, killing her and the other driver. The CIA didn't have any involvement in the crash, but the heartbroken man believed otherwise and blamed the Agency. He disappeared for a year, suddenly reappearing in New York setting up a studio. According to the Intersect, it was suspected that The Ring took advantage of the man's hatred of the CIA and paid off the artist to help develop an Intersect of their own. They trained him, too, if the three agent's bodies Neal had seen in the flash were anything to go by. Overall, Aaron Carson was not a nice man. And he now had an idea of a suspect in the break-in; problem was, that person had just left his apartment that morning. Daniel Shaw was going to have hell to pay when Neal got a hold of him.

"So, what do you make of it?" Peter asked when he saw Neal closing the file and leaning back against the cushy seat.

"Well, whoever did it was a professional. No fingerprints, no DNA left behind, nothing that could identify the person," Neal said, and then frowned as he thought. He knew he wouldn't be able to tell Peter any of his suspicions, but he could still work the case. "Are they sure it was just a single picture stolen? That doesn't seem right, unless of course they were only there to test the security system, or the robbers-"

" - needed that specific picture," the agent finished, realizing what Neal had been getting at.

"Exactly. These pictures are huge, though. I have no idea how they would have gotten them out."

Peter glanced at him sideways and asked, "You think it's an inside job?"

_Yes! Look inside, not outside! _Neal thought with relief, and then voiced, "It's possible. This is a state of the art security system, so having inside access certainly would help. Are we going to the studio now?"

"Yes. Jones and Cruz are headed there already to take statements. I figured I'd just pick you up since the studio wasn't far."

"And you wanted coffee," Neal said levelly, suddenly producing a thermos from somewhere. Peter didn't feel much like asking where.

"And I wanted coffee. Hand it over before I make up a reason to arrest you again."

"I'm hurt, Peter."

* * *

"Do you have a sit-rep for me, Agent Shaw?" a gruff female voice questioned through the phone in his hand.

"General, I made contact with Agent Larkin. His cover is still intact, but he's worried, and I'm worried," Daniel Shaw admitted as he strolled down the sidewalk. "Evidently, FBI Special Agent Burke became suspicious after their last case. Larkin thought he might be discovered, so he left the signal. Agents Asker and Landers then sent the encrypted email out to me."

"Do you believe Larkin should be pulled out?"

"At this time, no," Shaw said, and then exhaled softly. "Burke is smart, but, like his cover, I think the legend is strong enough to withstand scrutiny for now. The benefits of playing a con-man are obvious."

"Forged documents and backgrounds are almost expected." There came a loud sigh from the other end. "Director Graham really thought this one through."

"It seems he did."

There was a lull in the conversation before the female voice softened slightly and asked, "How is Agent Larkin?"

"I'm not exactly sure, to be honest. Larkin has always been good at controlling his emotions. Like a good agent should be, I suppose," the man conceded. "This slip-up shook him, though. If Burke is the brilliant agent his records say he is, eventually not even a good cover will hold up, and Larkin knows that. It's just the when and the how that's killing him."

"Well, let's hope it's never going to come to that. What about the Intersect? Has he mentioned anything?"

"I got a bit more information about that. It appears that he has total control of it, from what I could understand at least. Being in prison seemed to actually help him."

"Total control? In what way?" the female voice asked, and Shaw could catch slight surprise.

"He can pull up information, and even memories, at will. From what I know of, Bartowski has never used it in that way."

"Agent Bartowski didn't have three years in prison with nothing else to do." The speaker paused again, as if thinking hard. "That's amazing. Orion has never mentioned it being used in that manner before."

"I don't think he knew it could be used in this way. I'll discuss it with him when I get back to California."

"Good. And did you give Agent Larkin the package?"

"His old Taurus PT92, a phone, keys, along with an ID and passports in case he needs to leave quickly. The gun put a smile on his face, until he realized he couldn't carry it."

"That sounds like Larkin," the female voice sounded amused. "Has he been in contact with Agent Avalon?"

"Yes. She talked to Burke, who then passed it along to Larkin. Not that the FBI agent knew what the intel really meant," Shaw said, laughing slightly.

"I expect a written report by 0900, then. I assume you briefed him on the Carson problem, also?"

"Not exactly," Shaw replied sheepishly. "I had a feeling he'd find out soon enough. I'm expecting a call about it very soon."


	4. Corrupt Control

**AN:** Sorry this is a bit later than usual. I was on vacation. Updates will become more regular now. The language that comes up later, Farsi, is an Iranian language. This is the more local name of the language, and it's also known as the Persian language. Thanks for reading and big thanks to my betas AwesomeQueenoftheLab, and the-vampire-act

* * *

Chapter Three - Corrupt Control

* * *

"You must be the FBI agents. Aaron Carson, it's a pleasure to meet you," Carson greeted Peter and Neal as they walked into the entrance area. He was dressed in a fitted dark black suit with a white button-down and skinny black tie. The man's blonde hair was strategically messy, layers intermingling so that it looked like he'd just been in a windstorm. Overall, it was definitely a good look for the man, not that Neal would ever admit it. The English accent he had expected from the man was barely noticeable due to the years he'd been in the States. Carson held out a slim hand to Peter, which the agent shook with a nod.

"Special Agent Peter Burke, White Collar Crimes," Peter said, showing his FBI credentials to the man. He gestured towards Neal, who was standing behind him and taking his hat off. "This is my consultant, Neal Caffrey."

Carson's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, then his eyes swept over to Neal. Grey eyes met dark brown, and a brief flicker of recognition passed across the brown eyes, causing Neal's heart to sink.

After he had flashed on the case file, worry had begun to settle in pit of his stomach. The Intersect had provided intelligence that Carson was working on another similar system for The Ring, one that would have capabilities like Intersect 2.0. Neal knew that to create the encoded pictures, the creator would have to actually view the pictures so that he could pair them with the proper information. The Ring would definitely have a file on him, and although they thought Bryce Larkin was dead since he was listed as deceased by the government, it was still an everyday risk. He'd been stationed in New York because that was where they believed the rogue intelligence group was based. Exposure was inevitable, and while Neal's time in jail helped erase much of the suspicion – if there ever was any – the chance that Neal would be spotted and believed to be Bryce Larkin was still low. But now there was the very real possibility that this man knew who he really was, and with Peter still watching his every little move, Neal had a feeling that something was going to give soon.

Thankfully, Carson just held out a hand to Neal, who shook it with mild reluctance. After a tense moment as the man studied the consultant, Carson broke eye contact first when he turned then motioned for the two to follow him.

"Really. And what do you consult on?" Carson asked as he guided them down a hallway. Neal's training kicked in, and he let his gaze wander, trying to take in as many details as possible or assess any potential threats. Curiosity laced the man's voice, but Neal could tell it was an act. The man was still suspicious about something.

"Whatever the Bureau needs me to. Mostly art thefts, forgeries, frauds. The usual," he replied, ignoring the sharp glance Peter shot towards him and instead flashing his trademark grin.

"Fascinating," Carson drawled, his dark eyes watching Neal. "Well, I hope you can help us catch this pesky thief." He glanced back at the consultant with a cocky grin. Neal nodded back, outwardly smiling, inwardly frowning.

Peter, for his part, just observed the interaction between the two. He knew Neal well enough now to catch the tense undertone in both his voice and body language, but the origin of it puzzled the FBI agent. It wasn't often that Neal expressed nervousness in any situation, so it left Peter at a bit of a loss. Carson started talking about the gallery, though Peter only paid him half-a-mind. Right now, he was more concerned about his consultant, and he shot another warning look at Neal, whose intense eyes caught the agent's. The dark gaze startled Peter; however, Neal turned his head away quickly and broke the moment. Peter shook his own head in exasperation, and then turned back to the artist, who was still talking.

"And this is my baby, as you Americans say. The Gallery," Carson declared proudly, then spread his hands out and spun around as if to showcase the area. For a moment, Neal understood the pride in Carson's voice. Even he had to admit the room was beautiful.

The room they had entered was large, probably to accommodate the amount of pictures lining the walls. Large glass panels took up a whole wall, and it had a view that looked out over the Hudson River. The walls were painted a blue that reminded Neal of the night sky, it was so dark. On one wall, large portraits of people like Marilyn Monroe, Diana, and even George Washington hung, while another wall was home to pictures of famous paintings, such as the Mona Lisa. Except these pictures weren't painted on a canvas –they were printed on what looked to Neal like different types of sheet metal. Heavy frames, each one different, bordered the pictures where they hung. Perhaps the most amazing aspect to the art was that all of the pictures were formed from thousands of smaller ones that were related to the larger ones. At closer look, Marilyn Monroe's picture, for example, comprised of thousands of black and whites of her throughout life. They were all unique, which was probably the reason the artist was in such demand.

The only blemish in the room was a blank area of wall that was blocked off by yellow police tape stretching from nearby benches. Various agents and technicians with the familiar FBI windbreakers wandered around, taking pictures and consulting with each other. Peter immediately headed over there, leaving Neal to examine the pictures alone.

Unfortunately, Neal found that he couldn't look at the pictures for long, because he felt a massive headache approaching every time he tried. It felt like a flash, but he knew what was really happening – he was registering the larger picture and then the smaller ones all at once. Because his brain was already wired to accommodate similar information, it was trying to file them away as if they were Intersect files. However, because no data was encoded in them, he was having some trouble focusing when the pictures started to float aimlessly across his vision. So instead of looking at them, he cast his eyes down and took a few deep breaths in an effort to steady himself. A dull throb behind his eyes indicated that a headache was fast approaching and Neal almost screamed in frustration. He could deal with the pain, though – he had to.

"Some find that they cannot look at the pictures for long," a light voice startled Neal. Carson had snuck up on the dazed consultant, now standing at his side. "I've had a few people complain about headaches, so if you need a break I can show you to the balcony."

"I'm fine," Neal replied tightly. Before he could say more, he saw Peter beckon from where the agent was crouched on the floor. "Excuse me."

"Of course. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask," Carson offered, and the consultant dipped his head in acknowledgment. The moment he turned his back, though, the pleasant expression on Neal's face disappeared.

"How about a gun?" Neal muttered under his breath, his mouth twisting into a small sneer as he walked towards Peter. "That'd save us all a lot of trouble."

"What about trouble?" the agent asked suspiciously, as he had caught the end of the last comment, before holding out a pair of white gloves for Neal to put on so he wouldn't contaminate the scene.

"Nothing," he said, brushing it off. He put his hat under his arm, then took the offered protection and put them on, jerking the white material a little when it stuck. Wiggling his fingers, he asked, "So, did you find something?"

"Well, sort of. What do you make of this?" Peter indicated a long white gouge in the tan stone floor. There was a small yellow card that had the number two sitting near the area, marking it off for evidence collection – in this case, photographs. Neal knelt down and ran a gloved finger over the area, causing tiny pieces of white stone to break off. He sat back on his heels, crushing the stone in his palm.

"It looks like something heavy was dropped right here," Neal said, wiping the debris off his hands. He motioned downward, then sideways, "And then maybe dragged across the floor. I'm guessing it was the picture."

"It's possible. Without a sample of the frame, forensics can't match the imprints. So, we can only assume," Peter said, staring hard at the marks as if the answer would somehow pop out at him.

"And Forensics didn't lift any fingerprints around the area?"

"Nothing other than the expected residual," the agent confirmed, then stood up, Neal following suit. Carson had wandered over towards the two, and Peter questioned him. "How heavy are these things?"

Surprise appeared on the pale face at the odd question, but Carson answered, "With the frame, perhaps one hundred fifty to two hundred kilograms. Without the frame, it would be much less. If you do not mind me asking, why would the weight of the pictures matter?"

"That's about four hundred pounds, give or take a few," Neal said as he mentally calculated, then turned to Peter, saying, "It could definitely leave these marks if someone dropped it."

"It matters because it means more than one person handled the picture," Peter addressed the curious artist. "If it was a team, then we have multiple suspects. They probably got it off the wall, one of them dropped it, the frame hit the floor, and then they put it on a cart of some sort," he said, running through the scenario. "And you didn't hear anything at all?"

"Agent Burke," Carson said, speaking as if Peter was a bit dense, "these walls are soundproofed, and my security system was disabled somehow. So, no, I did not hear anything. You are welcome to look at the closed circuit video from during the time of the break-in, but I doubt that it will be of much help."

"And why would that be?" Peter asked, narrowing his eyes at the artist.

"The tapes are all blank."

"They were wiped?" Neal questioned, curiosity lacing his voice. He shot a glance at Peter and could see the wheels turning, too.

Carson shifted from foot to foot, looking a bit uncomfortable. Neal could tell the movement was a rouse, but it seemed too subtle for Peter to detect. That, or the agent wasn't paying enough attention.

"Well, all we got on the monitors was static. I can take you up to security to see for yourself."

"You do that. And I'd like your personnel files also," Peter said, and then added, "If that's not too much trouble."

"Not at all," the artist replied. Again, Neal caught a slight tightening around Carson's eyes, indicating it really was too much trouble. "Follow me then. I will show you to our security suite."

* * *

For a moment, as they came into the room, both Peter and Neal were blinded by the whiteness of it. Their eyes adjusted quickly, so finally the two could make out the interior of the area. The security room was a small white room with television screens lining the walls. Immediately, Neal thought of the Intersect room. If it really was true, and Carson was building another Intersect, then he was sure that it would be in this room somewhere. He couldn't see any computer terminals, though. Instead, in the middle of the room stood a large white desk, which curved around two white leather computer chairs where two men sat, quietly speaking to Jones and Cruz, who were standing over them. One of the men was completely bald, with black square-framed spectacles sitting on his nose. The white of the room made the man almost blend in, he was so pale. His companion, in contrast, was tanned to a deep brown. Long black hair hung around his face, and Neal wasn't able to make out any distinguishing features at first glance. A few keyboards and a mouse sat in front of them on the desk, but no computer could be seen. The screens attached to the walls showed live feeds from various places in the building.

"Jackson, Hutchinson, I need you to pull up the video from the time of the break-in," Carson commanded the two sitting in the chairs, bringing the attention of the agents to him.

"But Boss, the feed-" the dark haired one started, but Carson cut him off.

"Jackson! These nice men would like to look at the video."

The man Carson identified as Jackson spun around in his chair, allowing Neal to get a look at his face.

_A facial recognition program, then overlaying the picture with one in a file, list of names designated as known aliases, George Kouth, Cameron Jackson, Birth Name: Kelly David, a Roark Instruments ID card with the name Kelly David, Computer Systems Specialist, computer code, a bank account number followed by a bank statement showing large withdrawals, the word Fulcrum_

Before Neal could really catch his bearings, the other man, Hutchinson, looked up.

_A picture on an ID card, the Roark Instruments logo, Tim Hutchinson: Security, the same name on top of a file, Previous Occupation: Security Consultant, Carter Security & Consulting, Current Occupation: Head of security for Carson Galleries, highlighted words in a file, CONTACT WITH TED ROARK, WIRETAP APPROVED, audio software, a distinct Texas accent, "the security system for Roark Instruments is complex and multilayered, hard to break into, odd layout of building-"_

It took Neal considerable effort to mask the flashes. They were unexpected, and the headache that lingered from earlier came back with a vengeance. The influx of information had seemed harder for him to handle than usual. His brain felt a little scrambled, like the photo mosaics had slowed down the Intersect. He tried to school the wince that was attempting to crawl up as the pain intensified, but didn't really succeed. Almost immediately, he could feel Carson's curious gaze when the man caught sight of the movement.

"Are you sure that you are okay, Mr. Caffrey?" Carson asked, with a touch of concern. False concern, Neal knew, but the question drew the attention of everyone in the room, including Peter.

"Like I said before, Mr. Carson, I'm fine," he said forcefully, attempting to ignore Peter's piercing look. The concern he could see in his partner's eyes was real, so the lie tasted more than a little bitter in his mouth, but it got the artist to drop the subject. Neal knew that Peter would question him about it as soon as possible, though.

"If you are sure, then," Carson said, and after giving Neal one last long look he barked, "Jackson! I said pull up the video."

"Sorry, here it is, Boss."

A video came up onto the screens; from the timestamp they could tell it was exactly two twenty four AM. The high definition scene showed the gallery, illuminated by security lights and moonlight shining in from the large glass windows. It was completely still, no guards except for the large portraits, until – without warning – the screen showed static and the timestamp blinked out. Both Neal and Peter stepped forward at the same time, observing the video, or lack thereof.

"That's it?" Peter asked, turning back toward Carson.

"That is it. As you can see, someone was able to corrupt the video."

"Or delete the file," Neal cut in, as he twisted his upper body backwards to look at the group. Everyone looked over to the consultant where he stood by the large screens.

"I'm afraid that's not possible, Mr. Caffrey," Hutchinson leaned forward. The Texas drawl caused him to drag Neal's name out. "Not to be rude, but this security system is state of the art. There is no possible way that someone without security clearance would be able to access the computer system."

"Well, someone broke into the building, didn't they?" Neal responded then raised an eyebrow. "For someone skilled enough to break-in, hacking a computer system could be rather straightforward."

"Our computer system is more advanced than you might think, Mr. Caffrey," Carson said, dragging Neal's attention back to him. The man's brown eyes held a spark of annoyance at the consultant's apparent doubt over the security of the security system.

'_Oh, I know more about it than you think.'_ Neal didn't voice his thoughts though. He turned back to the screens and opened his mouth to continue, but his partner spoke up first.

"In any case," Peter said, drawing the artist's dark gaze away from Neal, "I'd like Forensics to take a look at the video."

"Of course. Would you like the personnel files still?"

"I would. Give them to Agents Jones and Cruz."

* * *

"You ass," Neal hissed into the phone in his hand, his voice sounding harsher than usual due to the change in language. To anyone listening, unless they spoke and understood Farsi, the conversation was incomprehensible. "Why the hell didn't you tell me you were here on a mission too?"

"Are all of our conversations going to start with you mad at me? In response to your question, you didn't ask," the male voice on the other end responded in the same language. "And Farsi? Really?"

"Just in case someone overhears us. And it has the added bonus of helping me vent some."

"It sounds like you've met Aaron Carson, then," the man on the other line said, the wry tone coming through even though Neal couldn't see his face. "What do you think?"

"Of him as a person, or the fact that he's building another Intersect?"

"Are you confirming that?" the man said, his speech growing faster.

"No, I'm not," Neal said, then sighed, "They brought us into the security room. It reminded me enough of the Intersect room to just assume. That, combined with the fact that he designs photo mosaics of all things, seemed reason enough."

"Unfortunately, assuming isn't going to be enough. General Beckman needs proof."

"Is that why you broke in?"

"I had to test the system somehow," the still-unidentified man insisted.

"A painting is missing, Shaw. The White Collar Unit is looking into it, but I have a feeling you already knew that."

"We knew the Unit was heading an investigation, but we thought it was just going to be for a break-in."

"You had this planned, then," Neal stated, anger lacing his voice.

"Beckman planned it, not me. And a missing painting was not part of the plan."

Neal was standing in the bathroom at the New York FBI offices, leaning his aching head against a cool steel panel of one of the stalls. The harsh tone of his voice echoed in the empty room when he asked, still speaking in Farsi, "How did you guys even come to suspect Carson?"

"Chuck flashed on an associate of his while we were going over a daily briefing, a man he called Kelly David," Shaw said, and Neal almost swore. "His bank account was tied to a known Ring operation. He didn't flash on Carson himself, though I recognized the name and talked to Beckman about it."

"I flashed on David too. He works for Carson as a computer system-"

"Specialist, yes we know. Did you flash on anything else?" Shaw asked. Neal paused a moment before he responded.

"Carson. I flashed on both him and a man named Tim Hutchinson. Listen, Shaw, we really need to-"

"Neal?" A sudden voice coming from the other side of the bathroom door asked, the switch to English shocking him for a moment.

"June's house, twenty three hundred. We have to talk." Neal said quickly, and he rushed into one of the bathroom stalls, then flushed the toilet. He shut the phone without waiting for a response from Shaw, knowing the man would understand, then slipped it into his right pocket. His shoes skidded on the grey tile floor in his attempt to get to the sinks before the voice, which he had recognized as Peter, came in. Just as he turned the faucet on and put his hands under the cool water, the door opened.

"Neal. There you are," Peter said in relief, allowing the door to shut behind him when he walked in.

"I'm well within my radius Peter, if that's what you're worried about," Neal said, shutting the water off and walking towards the paper towel dispenser. He proceeded to rip the towels out, keeping his back turned on his partner.

"It wasn't."

The sound of footsteps reverberated in the small room, and he closed his eyes when a hand settled on his shoulder.

_A nondescript white figure, the figure gripping the arm of another and twisting it, an elbow connecting with a head-_

"We've got work to do. I'll be in the conference room," Neal spat out and slid out of reach, before chucking the wet paper towels in the trash and hurtling for the door. He could feel Peter staring after him in disbelief, but he had to get out of there before he did something he'd regret. Like knocking Peter out, as the Intersect seemed to want him to.

Neal strode down the long hallway, trying not to let any of his inner turmoil show across his face. He knew that he had to gain better control of his emotions. The Intersect wasn't something that was easy to govern in the first place, especially the 2.0 version. Fewer emotions meant more control, yet lately he found himself having a problem with that. Ever since the clinic incident he'd been nervous, jumpy even, and if he didn't blow off some steam somehow, knocking out Peter would be the least of his worries. Problem was, he hadn't been the emotionless Bryce Larkin in years, and he wasn't quite sure he wanted to be.


	5. Identity Theft

**A/N: **I'm so sorry for the later update than usual. Getting ready for school proved to be more time consuming than I thought it would be. Hopefully the longer chapter makes up for it a bit. Also, check out my profile for a new poll I've posted and my forum for more info about this story. Thanks for all the alerts, reviews, and favorites! And big thanks again to my betas the-vampire-act and AwesomeQueenoftheLab :D**  
**

* * *

Chapter Four - Identity Theft

* * *

Peter knew that Neal knew he was watching him. How could he not after that scene in the bathroom earlier in the day; the man had run from the room as if the US Marshals were after him again. Something was up with his consultant, and he had a funny feeling that it was related to the clinic incident that took place almost a week ago.

During their last case, Neal had decided to go off on his own and sneak into the clinic the FBI was investigating. It had not ended well, and the consultant had been drugged by some nurses that thought he was an escaped psych patient. Peter had made it before too much damage had been done, but not before learning a few things from the loose-lipped man. He had actually written the information down, because while he had been a little hesitant to believe the seemingly random ramblings coming from the con man's mouth, Peter had felt the words held a weight behind them that was not normally present. He felt they had meant something – something important.

Ostensibly, there was just something about Neal getting a guy named Chuck, who a woman named Sarah apparently choose over Neal, kicked out of Stanford; Neal not being his real name; a General named Beckman whose name sounded somewhat familiar; and Neal getting shot – that had caught the agent's attention and he had kept it. Plus, for the past few days he had noticed the consultant's increasing coldness. It wasn't like him. He could not make any sense of it yet, but he was working on it, which was why he had called Jones into his office.

"You wanted to talk to me, Peter?" the dark skinned agent asked, his deep voice sounding interested and his eyes showing curiosity as he lingered in the doorway. Peter took the moment to observe the man.

Special Agent Clinton Jones had been with the White Collar Unit for almost two years working under Peter. In that time, Peter had come to trust the dedicated man, and while he still felt mild hesitation in confiding this information, he also felt that he had to tell someone other than his wife. He knew that Jones had actually come to tolerate and respect Neal, despite the fact that he often got saddled 'babysitting' the con man. Maybe Jones could offer a different perspective on the situation.

"Jones, sit down, and shut the door behind you. I want this conversation to be kept private," Peter said, glancing out the glass wall. Jones got the hint and let the door shut behind him before pulling out one of the office chairs in front of Peter's desk.

"Is this about Neal?" Jones asked; he grinned when he saw a look of surprise flash across the man's face. "What else could it be about?"

"It is about Neal," he said, giving Jones a wry smile in return. He leaned forward in his chair and slid a piece of paper towards the man. "I'd like you to run some names for me. Maybe you can find some connection that I missed."

"What do these have to do with him?" Jones picked up the paper and began to look it over. There were only four names on the list, including the name of a college.

_Chuck (Charles?)_

_Sarah_

_Stanford_

_General Beckman_

He looked up at Peter, and was startled to see something approaching hesitation on the agent's face at the question. After a moment of what seemed like careful calculation on Peter's part, he finally said, "This has to stay between us, understand? If this gets out, there could be some serious repercussions on both mine and Neal's parts in it."

There was a sudden heaviness to the air at that, but Jones nodded solemnly in understanding. It certainly said something about Peter's trust in him, but he just wondered what the straight-laced man could have done that would warrant such precaution. Then again, if it involved Neal, one could only assume it was something more than a little unlawful. "Understood. You can trust me, Peter."

"We wouldn't be having this conversation if I didn't," Peter said, a brief smile crossing his face before he continued more seriously. "Now, you remember when I called in sick for the afternoon a few days back?"

"During the Powell case?" Jones asked.

"Yes," Peter said, nodding. His eyes drifted over to the glass windows, and he absently commented, "My first sick day in a long time, and I wasn't the one who was sick."

Jones' eyebrows shot above his hairline. "So what happened then?"

"Neal did something Neal-like." He sighed and looked back at Jones. "When he found out that FBI had requested the clinic's financial records, he was afraid that we had spooked Powell. So, he went undercover with the little guy."

"Another Jimmy Burger?" Jones was referring to a past consultant to the Bureau who had been killed when he took on a case alone, without the support of the FBI.

"Don't remind me," Peter growled. "Thankfully, the situation didn't go as south as that one had. Security caught him on the closed circuit cameras when he was rifling through Powell's office. He found a list of donors and had faxed it over to me, but by the time I got there they'd sedated him. I found out later that they figured he was just a patient who had escaped from the psych ward."

"Not that big of a stretch," Jones joked, and Peter quirked his lip in response.

"At the time, no it wasn't. Turns out, Neal is very, ah, talkative when sedated. He mentioned those three people and then something about Stanford. I've been trying to find some kind of connection between everything, but I just can't." Peter sounded frustrated, and Jones had to admit the whole thing sounded intriguing.

He had thought that the agent knew more about Neal than Neal did. The con man had been the subject of Peter's study for years as they had played their game of cat and mouse. It was probably driving the man absolutely mad that he didn't know what was going on. While it was true that no one really knew Neal's complete past, the FBI did know a lot. He couldn't say that he was surprised that Neal had gotten into this situation though. It was just what the man did. Trouble seemed to follow the con-man everywhere.

"How can you be sure that it wasn't due to the sedatives?" He had to ask, since it was possible. Getting reliable information from anybody while they were drugged was almost always iffy, because drugs affected everyone differently.

"Call it a gut feeling," Peter said, leaning back in his chair again. "And he seemed too sincere. Neal doesn't do true sincerity all that often. Just run the names, and see what you come up with."

"Well, it'll be difficult, and it will take some time. A week at the most, and you know I can't guarantee anything. Without the surnames, more so." Jones furrowed his brow, glancing over the list again.

"Yeah, I know. But it can't be helped," Peter admitted. "Just work on it when you get some free time in between the Carson case. Hughes mentioned that a few security consultants from the firm that outfitted the gallery might be coming in to help with the investigation. If that happens, then you'll get more time to work on it."

"I guess we can only hope then," Jones said, standing up from the chair and walking towards the door to leave, paper in hand. He opened the glass door, and before he left he turned back to the agent. "You don't have to worry about this getting out, Peter. I'll keep quiet."

"Thanks, Jones. Let me know what you find out." Peter watched as the agent nodded and left the room without a backward glance.

He sighed and let his eyes wander to the desk downstairs, where from his vantage point he could see his consultant feverishly working on something. Even from a distance, he could tell the man was tense, sitting ramrod straight in the desk chair. Grey eyes scanned the room almost constantly, almost as if searching for threats. Why Neal would be worried about someone threatening him in the FBI offices, Peter had no clue. He did know that there was something up with his partner, and he was determined to find out what.

* * *

Daniel Shaw stood against the doorway, his eyes following the movements of the man sitting at the table. He had arrived at June's a little before eleven at night and let himself in like last time. For the better part of fifteen minutes now, all he did was watch Neal clean the gun that Shaw had supplied him with. It was interesting for Shaw to see the different emotions play across his friend's face as he held the weapon. Almost like the man had been reunited with a friend, which he supposed in a way was true. For the past five years, most of it spent in prison, Neal hadn't had the comfort or security of being able to carry. He still didn't really have it, because his record showed that he was a convicted felon. Though that was a lie, it would still be too much of a risk to carry, and Neal knew that. If he was ever searched, and the gun turned up, then his whole cover could be blown. Plus, with all the undercover work Shaw knew the Bureau had Neal do, it was just not feasible. However, what with the recent scare at the clinic, and with the upcoming mission that Shaw still hadn't told Neal about, the man would need the gun. Whether he would shoot him when Neal finally found out what Beckman wanted them to do was still a bit of a worry for the agent.

"You know, I personally cleaned that gun before I gave it back to you." Shaw pushed off from the door and walked towards the small table. "Why are you cleaning it now?"

Without breaking his concentration, Neal simply said, "It relaxes me."

"I'm sure it does," Shaw muttered. He picked up a rag that was lying on the table, and let the material flow through his fingers as he sat down. "Have you shot it yet?"

That question provoked a response. Neal gently set down the steel-colored barrel that he had been polishing, and met Shaw's eyes. "I just got the gun today; do you think I had any time to shoot it in between meeting Carson and trying to manage Peter? As much as I wanted to sneak into the FBI's indoor shooting range and blast the hell out of something, it would be a little odd for me to bring my own gun in, don't you think?"

"Just thought I'd ask," Shaw raised his hands in defense. Neal gave him an exasperated look; then he picked up a small bottle of what looked like oil and began placing drops of it on certain parts of the gun.

"You never 'just ask' something," he said, emphasizing the 'just ask' part. "Do you know a place where I could practice?"

"I might." Shaw had what Neal liked to call his 'mysterious' look on his face, and he shot the man an annoyed glare. "Finish up and we can go there for a while. We can talk about the Carson situation once we get there, too."

Ten minutes, a change of clothes, a deactivated tracking anklet, and a carefully hidden handgun later, Neal was walking with Shaw down a New York sidewalk. It was a crisp night so he had dressed more casual than his usual dress clothes, putting on one of his old beat-up leather jackets and a pair of black jeans. He had been eternally gratefully to the spy for getting his favorite clothes back to him. Sometimes, it was the little things in life. Shaw, on the other hand, was still dressed in the shorts and flips flops outfit of earlier.

"So, how do you 'con' the Marshal's database?" Shaw suddenly asked. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. "That must take some skill to fool those computers."

"Nothing four years of computer engineering and the Intersect couldn't handle. It helps that the Justice Department honestly has no clue how vulnerable their systems are," Neal said, sounding a little disgusted. "You'd think they would have something more than McAfee installed on their systems. Though, to be fair, the Trojan Horse I created isn't exactly mainstream, and it was designed so that anti-virus software couldn't detect it. That part took a bit of work."

"Did the Intersect really help you out?"

"With certain portions of the code it did," Neal said, before lowering his voice as a jogger ran by the pair. "I had to adapt most of it to fit the parameters for what I needed, of course, since 'How to break into the DOJ's database and plant a hack' is not exactly included in the Intersect's programming."

"Yet they teach it at the Farm," Shaw muttered under his breath. The agent then pulled out a set of keys, and the lights of a nearby car blinked twice as he unlocked it. When they got nearer, the light from a streetlamp caught the silver of the _Ford_ logo along with the word _Excursion_.

"Neal!" The set of keys were thrown at him, and his arm shot out to grab them mid-air. "You're driving."

"An _Excursion_? I was hoping more _Aston Martin_."

Shaw actually snorted as he caught Neal's twinkling eyes over the roof of the car. "And now I know you've been Neal Caffrey for too long, because the Bryce Larkin I remember would never say that."

Neal's smile turned into a frown and he broke eye contact, then popped the car door open. He slid inside, slamming the door behind him. The agent followed suit, albeit at a more sedate pace than Neal had.

"It was a joke, you know," Shaw said, reaching over to buckle his seatbelt. When he turned back around a GPS unit was thrust into his hands, and he sighed as he started to enter an address.

Neal pursed his lips in response and said, "I know. The problem is that it's true."

Finished programming the location needed, Shaw placed the device in a small slot that held it up for Neal to see. Normally, they would use the GPS already in the car, but there was always the slim chance that someone would steal the car and get the coordinate history off of the device.

"What's true? The fact that you want an _Aston Martin _versus this nice, level four armored car," Shaw said and gestured around as if displaying the car, "or the fact that you have been pretending to be someone you aren't for way too long?"

While Shaw had been talking, Neal had put the keys in and started the car. He didn't answer the question right away, preferring to concentrate on driving the big car. It had been a while since he had driven an armored one, and the added weight took a little getting used to. His training was slowly coming back to him, so he didn't even need the information the Intersect had provided him when he had first entered the car.

At a red light, he let out a long breath and said, "I almost knocked Peter out today. The Intersect is becoming harder to handle even after five years."

"Your emotions are beginning to get the better of you," Shaw reprimanded, glancing over to Neal who looked a little shocked. The light turned green moments later, and his focus was redirected to the road.

"How did you know?"

"I didn't know, I guessed," the agent stated. "Listen, Bryce, Chuck went through the same thing at one point. He had trouble controlling the physical flashes. One time he even told off a Buy More customer, in perfect Thai. It's because of stress, which you most certainly have in abundance right now. It's not like this has happened before."

"I know that, but how do I control it now? You said that Chuck went through it at one point, which means he doesn't have a problem with it now," reasoned Neal. The GPS indicated he had to turn right, so he jerked the steering wheel right. His passenger gripped the handle on the roof as the heavy car swerved through traffic.

"You know, I'm pretty sure no one is following us," Shaw said, recognizing the quick maneuver for what it was. He glanced back at the small traffic jam Neal had left behind. Despite the fact that it was almost eleven at night, the streets of New York were busy as always. "I ran a SDR already."

"Yeah, well, you know better than anyone that you can never be too careful, and answer my question." Neal sped up the car a little, as if mocking Shaw. The agent knew it was really because Neal hadn't driven in a while and was excited to be behind the wheel of something that he didn't have to hotwire to get.

"He has issues with it once in a while, but not at the level they were before. I'm sure you know that martial arts are in the Intersect." Neal shot him a dirty look, and Shaw continued. "Right, well, after flashing on karate, he wanted to try learning the skills without the Intersect's help. He came to me asking for training, and during a lesson he brought up the idea of meditation. Surprisingly, it was Casey who ended up teaching him, and ever since then he's had much better control."

"I already know how to meditate," said Neal. The GPS indicated that the address was only a block up, and he slowed the car, looking for a spot to park. He spotted an empty space behind a silver sedan and slowly eased the car into it.

"Then maybe you just need to shoot something," Shaw declared, a small grin forming on his face.

Neal laughed at that, the tension in the car lessening some. It was almost an inside joke between the two. During his days at The Farm, the trainees had been allowed to relax at night, unless they were running a night exercise of some sort. Much of Bryce's free time had been spent in the range, either shooting with everything from handguns to crossbows or practicing his technique with the throwing knives. It had been well known that if you needed to find him, the range was the most likely place to look. When Shaw had taught some classes, he would come down to the range and shoot with Bryce. That was before the man's wife had been killed on a mission, and the last time he had really seen Shaw.

"It's been a long time since I've done that," said Neal. There was a wistful quality to his voice. "Neal Caffrey isn't a man who likes guns."

"Then be Bryce Larkin for a night," Shaw delivered with a finality that surprised Neal. The man opened his car door, then exited, and Neal just sat there for a moment before he followed suit.

Once out on the dark sidewalk, he pointed the car keys at the black car and the lights blinked twice, indicating the car was now locked. The large agent had already started towards the mysterious location, so Neal had to jog to catch up. They didn't speak, which gave him a moment to think about the subject he had never liked thinking about: his multiple identities.

When Operation Cascade had changed course from terrorists to Fulcrum and The Ring, the first identity he had really played up had been Nicholas Halden, the gambler and money launderer. Intelligence suggested that there was a Fulcrum cell operating in Miami. He had played the money launderer side and gained the trust of the group before turning the information over to the Central Intelligence Agency, more specifically Director Graham. It had been a complete success, but had taken almost two months to accomplish. That had also been the first time that he went undercover for such a long period of time, and it had opened his eyes a bit. For two months he had to act like something he wasn't: a criminal.

After a while the missions had began to blur together. He played the playboy and investment fraudster Steve Tabernackle with a leer and many, many cocktails; the art collector and fence George Devore with a quiet confidence that said 'don't mess with me'; the gem and antiquities dealer George Donnelly with a pair of glasses and a jeweler's loupe; a business man and embezzler George Danvary with a suit and tie; all within the space of a year. He didn't get much time to be himself, although at this point he wasn't quite sure what 'himself' was. Of course, there had been the occasional time where he had to break into or hack something to gain intelligence on The Ring and Fulcrum, and that settled firmly in CIA training. But generally it was difficult to maintain that sense of self, more so after he had downloaded Intersect 2.0, since he had been given yet another name to deal with.

"Neal, I need a retina scan. It's the only thing we don't have on file," commented Shaw, and he glanced back at the consultant who moments before had been lost in thought.

Neal managed a weak grin at the CIA agent's knowing look as he realized they had apparently arrived at the location. From the outside it looked like a small abandoned warehouse; the grey paint peeling off of the sheet metal walls, decrepit looking windows and unappealing rusty doors encouraged people to overlook the area. The WARNING: BUILDING SITES ARE DANGEROUS – KEEP OUT sign also helped. He guessed that the security of the building was such that anyone who wasn't authorized could not get in. It was a CIA facility, after all.

Stepping closer to where Shaw indicated the hidden camera was by the doorframe, he didn't blink as it took a picture of his grey eye and saved it in the database. Shaw stepped forward and let the camera scan his own eye before placing a hand on the rusty doorknob. With a click, the door silently popped open. They glanced around the area to make sure that no one was around before Shaw strode into the darkness of the open door, Neal trailing behind. Motion activated lights flooded the area with illumination and revealed a long grey colored hallway. It was cleaner than one would expect, with the outside of the building being in such disrepair. A steel door stood at the end of the hallway, but this one had a visible intricate-looking keypad and palm scanner flush against the wall nearby.

"We need to see if the system recognizes you as it should," Shaw said at Neal's questioning look since the agent hadn't made a move to use the keypad.

"What's the code?" Neal asked as he walked up and placed his palm against the scanner. He winced a little when the title _BRYCE LARKIN (CIA), IDENTITY CONFIRMED_ appeared in bright green letters across the screen.

"Your agent ID number. If you remember it," Shaw challenged his friend with a grin.

Neal shot the man a dirty look and turned his back so that he was blocking the view of the keypad. He typed in the twelve-digit code that had been assigned to him when he had first started at the Central Intelligence Agency, then hit enter. The hiss of a hermetic seal breaking echoed loudly down the hallway, and the heavy door slid open. Without another glance at Shaw, Neal headed into the revealed area. For a moment, a feeling of déjà vu swept over him where he stood frozen on top of the metal staircase leading down into a familiar looking place.

"What do you call it?" Neal questioned softly, still gazing down over the area that was dimly lit.

"Well, we were going to call it Castle Two," Shaw started jokingly, walking in behind the man. "But the name felt a bit overused. You can call it the Studio."

The underground base was very, Neal dared to say, modern. Stainless steel chairs were scattered around various pieces of equipment and computer terminals whose screens all had a screensaver with a spinning logo that he recognized as the CIA's seal. The computers themselves were state of the art systems, specially designed to handle the large amounts of information they might require. In one area, a large LCD flat-screen television was hanging against the wall, surrounded by two smaller screens on each side, and four below those. Like the computers, they had the same screensaver, but the National Security Agency's seal was on the back of the CIA one.

A large table sat in front of the screens, its white surface top glowing slightly because it was lit from underneath. The outside walls were made from concrete, while the inner dividers were either glass panels or opaque white panels, allowing bluish light to filter through into the main room and giving it an eerie glow. Florescent strip lights were placed strategically along the concrete walls, and they flared on as Neal started to walk down the metal staircase. Despite the fact that it had been years since he had been in the twin to this building, Castle, he still half-expected Chuck or Sarah to suddenly walk through one of the sliding glass doors.

"I was expecting more of a dark cavern with paper plates as targets," Neal said, in reference to why they had come here in the first place. "Is the layout the same as Castle's?"

"It is, with the exception of a few rooms here and there. I'm guessing you know where the range is, then, so lead the way." Shaw gestured towards one of the doors, and then added, "I want to see how sharp your shooting is."

"I love pop quizzes," Neal quipped.

* * *

_BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, click-_

Without breaking his rhythm, Neal hit the magazine release and let the empty magazine drop to the floor with a clang. Not that he could hear it; he had ear protection on. He then reached down, grabbed a full magazine, slid it into place, depressed the slide release, and resumed firing until that one was empty. After popping the magazine out, he set the gun on the table and removed his ear protection. With the press of a button, the paper target came forward, as did Shaw, who was curious as to how the man did. It had been a while, not counting the shotgun he had shot at the party thrown by the corrupt Wall Street broker Avery, since Neal had shot anything. He got the feeling that this session would be more of a test than he would have liked. Why Shaw felt they had to do it now, he had no clue.

"Nice grouping, all center mass. Are your sights finally dialed in?" Shaw asked as he examined the target.

"They seem to be. And it only took half an hour this time," Neal grumbled, picking the gun up again. "So, what's next?"

"Tactical quick draws, unloaded first, then move onto loaded once you think you're ready. Since a hip holster is a little too obvious, we'll use the shoulder holster with your jacket on, and then you'll use no holster. After that, we'll work on different shooting positions until," the agent glanced at his watch, "twelve thirty. Another half-hour or so should be more than enough time. We'll discuss the Carson situation afterwards."

"Fine. As long as we're finished before two this time," Neal said, rolling up the foam earplugs and jamming them back into his ears.

"When did you become so grumpy?" Shaw questioned sarcastically as he did the same with his earplugs. He almost missed the man's response due to the hiss of the foam expanding in his ears.

"Right about the time I realized it was you in my apartment." Neal grinned as he picked up the gun again; completely ignoring the look of irritation his friend shot him.


	6. Hanging By A Thread

**A/N: **Heh, school has become very time consuming which is why this is almost a month late. I'm really sorry about that. It's definitely not abandoned though! I just might not be able to update as regularly as I'd like. Oh, and please ignore the numbers (if there are any) at the bottom of the document. They don't mean anything, I just can't seem to get rid of them. Thanks again for all the alerts, reviews, and favorites! And another big thanks to my betas the-vampire-act, and AwesomeQueenoftheLab :)

* * *

Chapter Five – Hanging by a Thread

* * *

Five Months Ago

_When the Neal Caffrey and Kate Moreau identities had first been created, they had decided plans would be put into place in the event that they were split up and had to communicate. While they were deep in the criminal underground, thankfully there had never been a need for their use. The death of the Central Intelligence Agency's Director, Graham, and the transfer of Operation Cascade over to the NSA and General Beckman did not see any change to those protocols for which Bryce and Katie had been eternally grateful._

_Still, when he had spotted that bottle sitting in the windowsill, it had been a bit of shock. Neal knew from her previous message that things had to move faster than the three months left in his 'sentence' would allow, but it was still a stark reminder of what he would be getting back into: secrets, lies, and conning the FBI. Because government sanctioned cons were always better._

_He turned the bottle over in his hands again, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the raised 'B' in Bordeaux. Neal paused, fingers hovering over the bottle, as his ears caught the sound of someone approaching. The loud click of the man's shoes hitting the wooden floor echoed in the empty apartment as he approached Neal from behind. If Kate had been there, he would have bet her twenty bucks it was his (hopefully) soon-to-be FBI handler. As long as everything went according to plan, that is. He still somehow had to convince the man to talk to him._

"_I see Kate moved out," the man started. Neal sighed, partially in relief, when he recognized the voice, but also because it was going to be the beginning of the biggest operation he had ever participated in. "She leave you a message in that?"_

"_The bottle is the message," Neal said, and allowed a dejected tone to enter his voice._

"_It's been a while."_

_Neal thought Burke sounded amused, which, considering the circumstances, he probably was. If only the man really knew that Neal Caffrey was a CIA operative, and not even really Neal Caffrey. He was pretty sure that would take the fun out of the whole situation, for the FBI agent at least._

"_Yeah, few years, give or take."_

"_You carrying?" The man already knew the answer, but Neal told him what he wanted to hear: the answer that was expected of him._

"_You know I don't like guns." He leaned his head back against the pillar, and he heard Burke step closer._

"_They asked me what makes a guy like you pull a boneheaded escape with four months to go," Burke said, as if he had solved some big puzzle._

"_Guess you figured it out," Neal said bitterly, biting his tongue to keep from laughing. The reality of the situation was suddenly quite funny, considering the agent was completely off-track._

"_Kate says 'adios' to you in prison and gets busy with her disappearing act. The trail ends here. But you already knew that." Burke drew the sentence out._

"_Missed her by two days." Just as they had planned, he added mentally. She would have to lie low for a week or so, until he was inside the FBI. It was all about maintaining the illusion._

"_Still only took you a month and a half to escape a Super Max. Damn impressive," Burke addressed Neal and then raised a walkie-talkie up to his mouth. "All clear. Subject identified and unarmed."_

"_Roger that," the device crackled._

"_We surrounded?" Neal questioned, with false curiosity, as he looked up and Peter nodded in response. "How may?"_

"_Including my agents and the Marshals?" Burke asked, and the CIA agent caught a small grin crossing the man's face. "All of them, I think. What's the message?"_

"_Good bye," he answered with a sigh that was completely real before setting the empty Bordeaux bottle on the ground. He would miss seeing the familiar face of his partner, but at least they could still communicate in some way._

"_Women," Burke voiced, and Neal scoffed in agreement. The FBI agent continued, "They're gonna give you another four years for this, you know."_

"_I don't care." He looked up at the agent, and a laugh suddenly bubbled up from his chest when he noticed something. As he stood up, Burke glanced at him strangely, and Neal felt the urge to explain. "That's the same suit you were wearing the last time you arrested me."_

"_Classics never go out of style," Burke smirked. Neal shrugged his shoulders in response, but mid-movement something caught his eye. The red lights from the many police cruisers outside caused a small thread on the agent's shoulder to be briefly illuminated, and a second was all it took for the flash to take over._

A cotton field, sheets of paper, the Canadian flag, a printing press, the distinctive brown Canadian hundred-dollar bills flying through the presses, a finished bill, the security features separated, a red security fiber along the back of the bill-

_The flash had taken less than a second, but had provided plenty of information. His job of getting Burke to agree to take Neal Caffrey on as a consultant just got that much easier. He reached for the little fiber on the man's shoulder, raising his hands when he saw the agent shift uncomfortably towards his gun. After Burke realized he was just reaching for the fiber, he nodded in consent, and Neal plucked the little red piece of gold off the man's shoulder._

"_You know what this is?" he asked, holding up the fiber and trying to suppress a grin._

"_No idea," Burke muttered, gazing in distaste at the red fiber. "I got it from a case I was supposed to be working on before they yanked me off to find you."_

"_You think you'll catch him?" Curious gray eyes met brown, and the agent shook his head breaking the eye contact._

"_Don't know. He's good," Burke said, his eyes slanting back over to Neal. "Maybe as good as you."_

_Neal could not contain a small smile at the admission. It was too bad most of his alleged crimes were just that – alleged. He dropped the look a moment later when he remembered what he had to ask. "What's it worth if I tell you what this is? Is it worth a meeting?"_

"_What are you talking about?" Burke had a look of confusion across his face, eyes darting from the fiber to Neal's serious face._

"_If I tell you what this is right now, will you agree to meet me back in prison in one week?" At the incredulous look he received in return, Neal added quickly. "Just a meeting."_

_They locked eyes again, and to Neal it was a tense moment. Everything would hinge on the man's response. It seemed to take an eternity, but finally, Burke nodded slowly and Neal spoke in a rush while handing the man the fiber. "It's a security fiber for the new Canadian hundred-dollar bill."_

_Surprise flashed across the FBI agent's face at this new information, but the sound of approaching footsteps distracted both of them, and agents poured into the room. The cool steel of metal cuffs were quickly snapped on his wrists, and as he was led out of the empty apartment, he glanced back at the still stupefied agent._

"_One week."_

_

* * *

_

Shaw knew that shooting had provided only a temporary distraction from the inevitable 'Carson' discussion with Neal. The man had been practically spitting fire earlier on the phone, and, frankly, Shaw was surprised that he had gone this long without mentioning it. Now that they had finished on the range and were back in the main area of the secret base, Neal looked impatient to begin questioning the agent. Since Shaw did not feel like giving the man a test on torture, he figured he would start first.

"This is the file we have on Carson as of right now." Shaw slid a red folder with the CIA's seal on the front across the bright table towards Neal, and then placed his palms against the table, leaning forward. "It's not much; not nearly as much as the Intersect supposedly has. The man has kept a fairly clean record, preferring to have his people get their hands dirty instead. People like Kelly David. There were the suspected killings of three CIA agents, whose names have been left out of it."

Neal's eyes shot up to Shaw's when he mentioned the dead agents, before he averted his eyes quickly. The names had not been kept out of the report in the Intersect, but he certainly was not going to tell the agent that.

"How exactly did you come to suspect Carson was designing another Intersect? You said Chuck flashed on David…" Neal trailed off, still skimming through the text. Nothing new jumped out at him yet.

"He didn't flash on David directly, he flashed on this," Shaw responded, and he reached over to turn a page in the file. Neal glanced down.

_A large leaf, a structural formula for a chemical, a photopolymer that looked like a metal of some kind, side view of a sheet of the metal that measured an inch thick, close-up of a matrix, lasers, zeros and ones, information, a picture_

"It's a prototype photopolymer for holographic storage that was developed by Cyprus Labs. A five-inch disk that's less than millimeter thick made with the stuff is able to store almost two hundred gigabytes of data. The long shelf life, and easy data recovery would make this ideal for something like an Intersect," Neal said, his eyes wide as he looked at the file. "This is why you think Carson is making an Intersect."

"I'm sure you're aware that when the CIA first started developing the Intersect and the Origin, holographic data storage was seriously being considered for storing the data because of the large memory requirements." Shaw sat down in a chair across from Neal and folded his arms across his chest.

"Yeah, but at the time there was no holographic media developed yet that we could use," Neal said, reaching out for the file again. "So instead, we had to settle with just regular magnetic drives and really fast processors. Even then, the programs were so slow the project was almost scrapped. David bought some of this material?"

"We don't think he just bought it. A scientist that worked at Cyprus went missing a couple months ago under unusual circumstances, and since the company has government contracts, General Beckman wanted us to investigate. Chuck and Sarah have been undercover as a computer engineer and a secretary for the past few months, until when we were going over a list of Cyprus's past employees, one of David's aliases came up. The man had only been with the lab for a month as a computer system specialist-"

"Do what you know," Neal muttered, interrupting Shaw and ignoring the subsequent glare.

"He worked as a specialist for a month before he just up and quit. A week after the scientist disappeared," Shaw finished. His dark eyes were fastened on Neal's face, waiting for a reaction.

"So you think David kidnapped this scientist, stole the designs for the holographic storage system, and then began working with Carson on an Intersect." It was a statement, not a question. What Neal still could not figure out, though, was why it felt like they were missing something with this case. Not to mention, he was still wondering how Shaw landed this job.

"It's a fair guess. Carson is known for dislike towards the Agency, and he's been on the watch list ever since the killings." Shaw added, "Plus, after the Roark incident, all previous employees of the company are being monitored by the NSA."

"Yet somehow David slipped past," Neal pointed out.

"Neal, the NSA and the CIA can only devote so much to monitoring them. You know that." Shaw frowned at him. "It was fortunate enough that it was my team that became involved with Cyprus since it lead to Carson. Beckman doesn't like bringing anyone in who isn't already briefed on the Intersect project."

Absently, Neal began tapping a beat against the table, his gaze distant. Shaw was right. It was extremely lucky that it had been Team Bartowski and not another team. For one thing, not anyone could make the connection from holographic storage to the Intersect to David and eventually Carson. What was still confusing was why Carson would want to involve the FBI, especially if the man suspected the CIA. Neal cut the tapping suddenly as he remembered something from the phone conversation he and Shaw had had that afternoon.

"Earlier, you said that you knew the FBI was looking into the gallery," he started, leaning forward towards Shaw, who was listening intently, "but you didn't know about the stolen painting."

"No, we didn't know. The mission was to get in, get out, and make some noise. I never touched the art. Beckman was hoping that the FBI would be called in for the break-in since it is a 'high profile' gallery. We just needed someone who could be trusted by us, and given access by Carson," Shaw said, and Neal's mouth twisted into a sneer when he finally made another connection.

"And I fit the bill, didn't I?" he snarled as anger suddenly raced though him, not receiving any response from the agent other than a quick glance. "It's perfect. The FBI, Peter's team – which happens to include one of the two people in the world with the Intersect – investigates. The Intersect gets a good look around, bypassing all the security systems. Beckman didn't really send you because I left the signal that there might be a problem, did she?"

Shaw began to shift under Neal's suddenly intense gaze, and he let out a huge breath of air before uncrossing his arms, admitting, "I was going to tell you about my mission, but it got late and I knew it might have been a difficult topic."

"Difficult?" The word tasted unpleasant in his mouth as he stared at Shaw incredulously. "I had to find out about Carson in the car ride over to the gallery by _flashing_ on Peter's file. A warning would have been nice."

"But Burke didn't know that anything was up, and you were able to conceal the flash," Shaw pointed out, trying to change the subject. He knew it was futile though. Once you got the man started, it was hard to stop him. It's what made Bryce Larkin such a good spy.

"That doesn't matter," Neal argued, anger lacing his voice. "And don't change the subject."

"But it does matter – to me, at least." At Neal's uncomprehending look, Shaw continued, "A day ago, Bryce Larkin was dead. Imagine my surprise when I find out he's not dead, but masquerading as a conman. So excuse me for being a little skeptical that you were an Intersect also."

"Yeah, well you're not excused," Neal hissed, and his chair screeched in complaint when he viciously pushed away from the table. He started to pace back and forth in across the small area, like a caged animal, one arm positioned over his chest while the other tapped on his lips while he thought. "What was it then? Another test?"

A flash of something crossed the agent's dark eyes, and he opened his mouth to answer, but Neal literally pounced, his hands slamming against the table, causing Shaw to frown at the violence behind the move.

"It was a test, then. I should have guessed, really, since everything with you is." Neal waved a hand through the air as if dismissing the man. He turned his back to the table then leaned against it, crossing his arms in front of his chest. At that moment he could not stand to look at his old teacher. "So. Did I pass?"

Shaw closed his eyes when he caught the bitter tone in his friend's voice. He had not intended to have Neal find out that he was testing the undercover CIA agent. While the ability to improvise was an important asset and many agents thrived on it, agents were almost always briefed before a mission of any kind. Throwing Neal in cold might have been a mistake, he realized, though it was too late to do anything about it now.

"Listen," Shaw pleaded, interrupting the stony silence and leaning over the mess of papers on the table, "I debated on whether or not I should tell you about Carson the whole time we were in your apartment. It's just, you were so concerned about the possibility of your cover being blown that I decided to let you find out on your own. And I wasn't sure if the mission would even happen since the whole thing hinged on Carson actually reporting the break-in."

He watched as Neal's shoulders lost a bit of the tension from earlier at the quiet confession, so he knew the man was listening.

"To be honest, seeing you kind of scared me a bit." Shaw looked down, staring fixedly at his clenched hands. "I read some of the file on Neal Caffrey, and it was the complete opposite of what I knew Bryce Larkin stood for. A cover like this isn't meant to be a life for the rest of your life. It's not you, and deep down, I think you know that.

"When Beckman briefed me on this, I knew it was going to be hard for you. Getting cut off from the Agency is never fun, and I can't even imagine how hard it must have been waiting in that prison, only to be forced into another prison," Shaw said, his brown eyes still flicking down to the disabled tracker on Neal's ankle.

"Well, you're right about one thing," Neal muttered, keeping his back to the man. "You can't really imagine. And I suppose for a while I was mad at the Agency, along with Beckman. But call it what you want, self-preservation, whatever, I didn't want to die. The Ring and Fulcrum still thought I was an Intersect, and this was preferable to getting killed. Again."

Exhaustion heavily lined his voice, which he knew was an effect of too little sleep he had gotten over the past week. Wearily, he raised a hand and ran it over his closed eyes. This whole situation was getting complicated. Behind him, he could hear the agent standing, the screech of the metal chair cutting through the silence like a knife.

"We need your help, Bryce-Neal," Shaw corrected himself when he saw Neal tense at his given name.

"With what?" he whispered, afraid he already knew where this was going.

"I need you to be Special Agent Kent's consultant for a day." Shaw walked around the table to stand in front of Neal.

"Who is Special Agent Kent?"

"Me."


	7. Smoke and Mirrors

**AN:** Almost a month I know, and I'm sorry! I went through a few rewrites of this chapter since the plot starts to pick up a bit more, and now its definitely one of my favorites. It might be a while until I update again, because I am participating in NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month. If I need a break from that, I'll definitely try and get the next chapter for this done. Wish me luck, I have a feeling I'll need it ^_^ Line breaks are not showing up, just a note...

* * *

Chapter Six – Smoke and Mirrors

* * *

"You know, impersonating a federal agent is an offense punishable by up to three years of prison, which I already did once." Neal idly twirled a pen in his fingers and thought over all that Shaw had told him. He grimaced when he realized what he had just said. "Not that it matters, I suppose, since we're CIA."

"If this goes right, we won't get caught. Think of it as a doing a favor for us since I know we promised to leave your mission up to you and Kate unless, of course, you were in trouble," Shaw said, his eyes tracking the movement of the pen as if afraid that it would suddenly become lodged somewhere in his body. He knew how much Neal liked sharp objects, as the thin red line under his jaw indicated, from when he had attempted to enter the man's apartment. "We just need more information on this than we have, and you don't have to be any more involved than that. After this is done, Beckman will send the case over to my team and we'll finish it."

"And she'll leave me alone?" he asked, eyeing Shaw and feeling more than slightly skeptical of the truth behind the agent's word. Now that he had been dragged into this mission, the feeling that something bad was going to happen would not leave him. He should have never left the chalk mark on the lamppost; instead, perhaps, he should have dealt with the situation by himself.

"Until you call for us again. Your usual contact will continue the operation with you as he would have if Beckman hadn't sent me this time." Shaw flicked the open file shut and put his hands behind his head, leaning back in his chair.

"Is that how you got into my house? He gives you the key?" It was asked in a joking manner, but when he caught the slight twitch of the man's lips in response, Neal scowled. "I'll kill him."

* * *

"Got it, thanks, Macy." Peter handed a file over to the redheaded female agent, who gave him a tired smile in return. The woman's team dealt mainly with white-collar cyber crimes, and according to the file, there had been a rash of phone calls last night about a new scam, so her team had been up all night. It was a familiar ritual for all agents, and Peter certainly knew how tough those late nights could get. He was thankful that she had at least informed him of the problem, though.

"No problem, Burke," she commented softly, her voice cracking from tiredness. As she continued down the stairs where she had stopped him, she suddenly looked back up. "And tell Elizabeth I said hello!"

"Will do," he replied, an involuntary smile crossing his face at the mention of his wife. He shoved his other file under his arm, and watched her trudge down the rest of the stairs. Shaking his head in sympathy, Peter took the steps two at a time. Once he was at the top of the steps, he started walking towards his glass-paned office, but he caught something odd out of the corner of his eye and changed direction.

Opening the door to the dark conference room, Peter blinked a couple of times before he realized that the sight in front of him was not a dream. Neal Caffrey sat in the empty conference room, blinds drawn since it was only seven in the morning, drooling on what looked like a case file. The man was fast asleep, and from what Peter could tell, he still desperately needed it.

Hesitantly walking closer, since he did not want to startle the man, he bent closer to see what the file said. He frowned when he recognized it as the Carson case, and he reached forward to see what Neal had written on a piece of paper nearby when his hand was seized before he could make contact.

"Peter, what are you doing here?" Neal asked, gray eyes still sleepy-looking, but his voice was clear. He released the tight grip he had on the agent's wrist as if nothing out of the ordinary happened before running a hand through his slightly messy hair. For a moment, Peter felt a small flash of jealousy that even after sleeping on a conference room table, Neal still looked perfectly presentable. He rubbed his now aching wrist and answered the question as he placed the file he had been holding onto the table.

"It's seven in the morning." The agent watched, mildly amused as Neal's eyes widened, and there was a sudden rush as Neal hurried to look at a clock. "Have you been here all night? I thought I told you to go home and get some rest."

"What?" Neal asked absentmindedly as he began to gather up the papers littering the table. "Not all night, no. Just since two."

"Two in the morning?" Peter asked, both curiosity and concern coloring his voice. "Did you get a break in the case?"

"You could say that," Neal replied mysteriously and continued shuffling paper together. The man's tone of voice caused the agent to grit his teeth slightly. "I did some consulting of my own."

"On the Carson case? Hughes discussed it with me this morning." When Neal shot him a curious look, he elaborated. "The higher-ups have been pushing for a quick closure for some reason, so we are bringing in another consultant – an agent who has experience with the same security system that's outfitted at Carson's. Name's…" he opened the file that he had in his hand and checked the name given, "Supervisory Special Agent Kent."

"His first name Clark?" Neal joked, purposely turning his back and trying to busy himself with some papers so that the trained agent would not see the glint of apprehension that crossed his face. It was one thing to talk to Shaw in the privacy of his apartment or the Studio where he did not have to hide that part of himself, but it was a whole other ball game now. His spy training and acting skills would be put to work. Part of him was obviously apprehensive, but there was a small part of him that was excited to work the mission, even if it was a small one.

"Neal," Peter said with a warning in his voice, eyeing the man's turned back. "I know what you're thinking, and don't even think about it. I expect you to behave around this agent. That includes no pick-pocketing of any kind – "

"It was one time!" He turned around, leaning back against the glass table, and said indignantly, "And I gave them back, didn't I?"

The sharp glare he received from the FBI agent told him all he needed to know; however, he held the eye contact and turned it into a staring contest. The Intersect was primarily a government database, so it included all federal employees' files. It was not his fault that he had flashed on a fellow agent, and he had wanted to investigate a little further, though. It was his fault that said agent had to transfer suddenly under mysterious circumstances that had the office buzzing for days.

"Fine, I'll play nice," he finally conceded, raising his hands in defense and breaking eye contact. Peter didn't look happy, but the man knew it was about all he would get out of Neal. "When is he coming in?"

"He should be here by eight. Hughes told me that SSA Kent was already briefed, but he wants to see the evidence and blueprints to the gallery himself." Peter pulled out a chair from the conference table once Neal was done cleaning up the mess of files, and he set the cup of coffee on the table before sitting down.

"What division does Kent work in?" Shaw had not told him much about the cover other than he would be his consultant for a while.

"File says Counter-Intelligence," Peter answered, looking a bit impressed. Neal almost snorted when he heard that, thinking to the conversation the two had had during the night. The phrase 'Do what you know' came to mind, but he just plastered a curious look on his face and sat down in a chair. "Kent worked with the CIA for a few years before being injured in the field and subsequently let go, deciding to join the FBI soon after. He runs a team of three other agents out of the LA field office. Here's his file."

The agent handed him the manila folder, which he opened a bit cautiously, expecting a flash. However, since the identity was relatively new, Special Agent Kent was not yet in the Intersect. The mention of the CIA had him a bit concerned, though, because Shaw had not mentioned anything about using the Agency in his cover.

"A spy?" Now he was surprised as he read through the file a little more. Although, the best lies were often half-truths. Neal supposed that it would have been easier to shift a few files around than to create a whole new legend and cover. "File doesn't say what he did at the Agency." The moment the last word left his mouth he realized he might have made a mistake. Usually only law enforcement or those familiar with the CIA referred to it as that, but thankfully Peter seemed too preoccupied with another file.

"It's the CIA; they don't say much," Peter said, sounding a bit put-out to Neal, who just could not resist commenting. The conversation was starting to become amusing and more than slightly ironic.

"So much for interagency cooperation," he drawled, idly picking up a pen and spinning it on its tip. "Aren't you guys supposed to play nice with each other?"

The agent eyed the pen as if it had done him a great personal harm and said, "You're telling me. None of my previous cases had me working with other government agencies, so I don't have much experience in the area. White collar crime isn't usually associated with intelligence." Peter continued, turning his attention back to the file and missing Neal's sardonic smile, "which is why I'm more curious about just why an Intelligence agent is consulting on this particular case."

"We thought it might have been an inside job, remember?" he asked, leaning back in the chair and propping his feet up. Moments later, he hurriedly put them down again when he noticed the green light that usually flashed on his tracking anklet was out. He had forgotten to reactivate the stupid thing, but considering he had not been home yet, it was not his fault. If he could get a hold of a Bureau computer he would be able to fix it hopefully before Peter spotted it. Placing his head in his hands as he felt a headache approaching, Neal's voice was muffled as he said through the barrier, "Maybe the background checks flagged something. Have you gotten the results from them yet?"

Silence greeted the question, and he glanced up at his partner. Something that could have been concern glittered in the agent's eyes as they roamed Neal's face, looking for something. What, the consultant had a pretty good idea, but he was not going to start that conversation.

"Neal," Peter said softly, completely changing the topic as he placed the file on the table and leaned towards him. "When was the last time you got a full night's rest? You look exhausted."

It was probably true, he realized. He certainly felt exhausted. Ever since the clinic incident, he had been having a hard time sleeping, knowing that at any moment his cover could be blown, all because of a stupid risk he had taken to get a meaningless doctor. Night after night he kept jerking himself awake, covered in sweat, after the same nightmare: Peter finding out and Neal getting the order to kill the man; standing over the man lying in an alley somewhere with his smoking gun still poised over the lifeless body; blank, accusing eyes piercing what little was left of his soul; and the worst, probably – knowing he would be leaving El a widow. Realistically, he knew that the CIA almost never ordered a hit on anyone. That didn't stop him from not thinking about it, or worrying about it.

"I'm fine," he finally said, proud that his voice did not quiver. "Like I said, it was just a long night. You know how Mozzie gets when he's had a little too much."

The wry smile that crossed Peter's face confirmed that he did indeed know what Neal's friend Mozzie was like drunk, and the agent opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. Two pair of eyes, one gray and the other brown, glanced up at the disturbance, and when Peter saw it was Jones, he waved the agent in.

"Peter, can I, uh, talk to you in your office for a bit?" The dark-skinned man raised a file, his eyes darting to Neal, who settled for a mildly curious expression as he caught the man's barely concealed nervousness. "It shouldn't take long."

"Of course," Peter said, standing up from the table and leaving the file he had been perusing on the glass top. When he got to the door, he stopped and looked back at the consultant before pointing at the file. "There's the background checks. I'll take care of this, and when I get back we'll talk, understand?"

Neal nodded reluctantly, already trying to think of a way to get out of talking. It seemed like all he had been doing lately was talking, and he was sick of it.

"Got it," he said, already reaching for the file. Peter started out the door, but Neal called him back. "Peter!"

"Yes, Neal." Jones looked impatient and kept shooting Neal glances through the glass. The agent waited for what his consultant had to say, knowing he was going to regret it when a smirk twitched at the corners of the man's mouth.

"Think he wears a cape?"

* * *

"What is it, Jones?" Peter asked and plopped down into his desk chair with a sigh. "The agent will be here at eight, and I want to check with Forensics again."

A plain manila file slid across the desk, and his hand automatically shot out to catch it before it skidded all the way off. On the outside, there were no distinguishing characteristics, but when he opened it up the piece of paper that he had written the list of names on was pinned just on the inside. There was a thin stack of papers, and the first one had the Bureau seal along with the title _Reid Mortgage Case_, followed by a date. Puzzled about why Jones would give him this particular file, he looked up at the man in question.

"Turn the page," was the man's response. Jones had not yet moved to sit down, instead standing and fidgeting with another file in front of Peter's desk. Peter did as the man said, and went back to the title page before turning it.

He was greeted by a picture of a prim-looking woman with deep red hair and a stern facial expression. The expression threw him for a moment, making him feel like the woman was scolding him with her eyes. She was in what he recognized as the Air Force's dress uniform, but he was not sure of the ranks and various ribbons that adorned her jacket.

"I crosschecked Neal's file with the list of names like you asked, but I didn't have any luck," Jones cut into Peter's inspection, walking around the desk to stand at Peter's shoulder. "Then I decided to run just the names and got an interesting result."

"General Diane Beckman, director of the National Security Agency?" He gazed at the name in surprise, before turning to look at his agent. "The NSA? Are you sure this is right?"

"I triple-checked," Jones said, looking pained. "Hell, I even Googled it. That's the only General Beckman I could find. I ran the Charles and Sarah names also. The only problems with those were that without the last names, I got about ten thousand hits for the federal government alone."

"Did you narrow it down?" Peter inquired, his attention focused on the woman's file. He was a little upset at the lack of information it provided other than the basics. He saw that she was a Brigadier General, though he guessed that was because of her security status.

"You could say that." Jones pulled a thick stack of papers out of his jacket's pocket and handed them over. "It was actually a bit of an accident that I made the connection. When you asked me to run Agent Kent's name, I noticed that something was off in his file, and then I realized what it was. Kent's team is comprised of three other agents: an Agent John Casey, Agent Sarah Walker, and Agent Charles Carmichael. Agent Casey was listed as a liaison from the NSA, and Walker is ex-CIA like Kent. Their files were classified, though, so I didn't get very far. "

"Sarah and Chuck?" He gazed at the pictures in the profiles: a pretty blonde, a serious-looking military man, and a kid with cheesy smile. All very qualified, according to their dossiers. Yet, he had to agree with Jones that there was something odd about the whole team. When he had even looked at Kent's file, the CIA affiliation stuck out like a sore thumb, and now the NSA connection was odd too.

"I don't know, Peter, but it's a heck of a coincidence." The junior agent walked around the desk, as if restless, and stood in front of the window looking down into the large work area.

"So how are the director of the NSA, two FBI agents, an ex-CIA agent, and Neal connected? Are you sure these are right?" he asked the man's back a little desperately, despite already knowing the answer.

"Peter, I'm positive," the agent said, sounding exasperated as he turned back toward the desk and sat down. "And I don't know what to tell you. Maybe you should bring it up with Neal."

The sides of Peter's eyes crinkled as he grimaced. "I don't know how much good it will do. Since he slipped up, he's been guarded around me. Although I think he almost decked me in the bathroom yesterday. He was pretty upset about it afterward."

"What did you do?" Jones asked disbelievingly. They both knew that Neal was not a very physical person, preferring sweet-talking over violence, so this admission was more than a little strange.

"I think I startled him. Before I walked in, I heard voices, and I thought maybe someone was in the room with him, but now I realize he was probably on the phone." His face took on a thoughtful look as he tried to remember something that he had thought odd at the time. "I don't think they were speaking English."

"Well, we know he's fluent in Japanese and French," the dark-skinned agent pointed out. He had read Neal's file more than once.

"It was too harsh. Maybe Russian or the Middle East." Peter had only heard Arabic a few times, most of them in training at Quantico. Potential agents had the option of becoming language-certified, and speakers had come in to discuss options. Peter had been more of a numbers guy, though, so he had opted out of that, but he thought the language sounded similar to that. "At any rate, it was not something I expected to hear come out of his mouth. And in addition to that, he looks practically dead on his feet. Those hats can only hide so much."

"Have you tried talking with him?" Jones asked, a little concern creeping into his own voice.

"You know Neal. I haven't gotten anywhere! He clams up or changes the subject once I mention anything to do with sleep or resting," Peter said as frustration swept though him again.

"Tonight I'm going over to June's and forcing him to talk. If it's nightmares or whatever," he struggled for a word, "then maybe telling someone about them will help."

Jones let out a snort and commented jokingly, "Bring El. You tell her he hasn't slept in almost a week and she'll kick his ass straight to bed."

"My wife – in bed with Neal? No way in hell that's happening." Jones burst out laughing in response, and a small smile tugged at his own lips. "I was actually thinking of asking Mozzie to come."

"The little guy?" Jones had a thoughtful look on his face now, and he suggested quietly, "Maybe you should ask him about this Beckman and Chuck."

"I might. First, I just have to find him. He can be – " Peter drifted off as movement out in the main room caught his eye through the glass.

A tall, very familiar man had walked into the area, followed closely by two other agents whose names always escaped him. Disbelief filled him as he watched the man approach one of the agents on the floor and say something before raising his eyes to Peter's office. They made eye contact, and he had to restrain the urge to swear loudly and colorfully.

Jones, curious about the sudden silence from his boss, shifted his attention and turned in his chair to glance out the glass window. Surprise crossed his dark face before he asked, confusion plain in his voice, "Peter, what is OPR doing here?"


	8. Sub Rosa

**AN: **Hey guys. Whew, NaNo was an interesting month. I'm almost sick with writing, but was able to finish this. :D Ever since I had the idea for this story I decided what I was going to do with Fowler, and I knew it might not be what people would expect of the character. If it's mildly confusing for some, there will eventually be a flashback explaining everything. So I hope you guys like it. Next chapter will be up as soon as possible and it's gonna be a really fun one! :D Thanks to the-vampire-act and AwesomeQueenoftheLab for their beta work. And a big thanks to all the people who reviewed, alerted, added the story to a community, etc. I've been pleasantly surprised with the way this story was received. You guys are great! Now on to the mystery of OPR.

**AN2: **This is not, and will not be a slash story. Thought I'd add this in case people think that and get on me about it. Shaw and Neal are just friends, nothing more. :D

**Disclaimer:** I don't own White Collar, Chuck, or Waiting for Superman. Just borrowing...

* * *

Chapter Seven - Sub Rosa

* * *

Peter sprang out of his chair and rushed to the door, jerking the steel handle to get it open before he made it out into the upper landing. He knew Jones would be right behind him, just as curious as Peter was about their visitors.

Glancing across the balcony towards the glass conference room, where Neal was staring at him with an indecipherable expression on his pale face, Peter knew that the man had noticed the commotion down below. The agents from the Bureau's Office of Professional Responsibility always caused tension within the office. Last time even more so, considering that they had arrested Neal on suspicion of theft. He still thought Fowler had something to do with it. Peter got nothing but bad vibes from that particular agent.

He started for the conference room, with Jones hot on his heels, and watched as his consultant slowly stood before walking towards the door to meet Peter when he opened it.

"What's OPR doing here?" Neal asked once he was out on the landing, his eyes darting down to the small but imposing group before looking at Peter seriously. The worry in his voice was unmistakable. "They don't think that I stole the Carson piece, do they? Because I didn't."

"I know Neal. Just calm down." It was a little strange to see the consultant so flustered, so he looked away. Quickly, he grabbed the man's upper arm tightly and began to steer him towards the stairs, muttering quietly, "We don't even know why they're here yet."

"Burke! You too Caffrey!" They got the 'double-finger point' from Hughes, who had gotten to the floor before either of them, and evidently the OPR agents had already informed the Special Agent in Charge just whom they needed.

"And now we do," Neal commented dryly to Peter, finding some humor in the situation. This was unexpected, though, and he was curious as to why the group was there now. As he came down the stairs, he met the scowling eyes of the man he knew to be the leader.

Special Agent Garret Fowler was an imposing man, standing at six-foot and dressed in what Neal liked to call the standard issue Bureau suit with his sidearm visible in its holster. Working as an Internal Affairs investigator with OPR, the fair-haired man did his job well (perhaps too well, as Neal could attest to). Nevertheless, for a moment while Neal was eyeing him, a frown crossed Fowler's worn face before the expression was gone, and panic shot through him. The unexpected appearance of the man meant nothing good.

A few other agents, whose names he had memorized last time just so he could bug them, were standing around the lead agent, eyes darting around the office as if watching for possible threats.

"What's going on?" Peter addressed Hughes, completely ignoring the suddenly smirking OPR agents. The older agent opened his mouth to respond, but Fowler answered instead.

"I need to talk to your consultant regarding a case, Burke," Fowler said, glancing at Neal, who had shifted forward slightly when he heard 'case'. He looked back at Peter, who seemed upset when he heard the man's request.

"The Carson case," Peter guessed, frowning at the men. The anger in his voice was unmistakable. "You don't think that Neal is a suspect, do you? That didn't turn out so well for you last time."

"Peter, it's not for what you think," Hughes attempted to calm the agent down. Peter shot him a disbelieving look, before turning his attention back to Fowler when he spoke.

"That's classified, Agent Burke," the OPR agent answered unapologetically, a small grin on his face as Peter went red.

"Classified?" Peter growled, and Neal glanced at his partner in concern as the man's eyes narrowed. He knew the two already had a poor relationship, if he dared to even call it that, and while he did not blame his friend, he certainly did not want to see pieces of the OPR agent scattered about the room.

"It's straight from the Department of Justice, Peter. Just let them do their job," Hughes softly chided the agent, who did not lose any of his ire.

"Peter," Neal interrupted, gently grabbing the man's arm to get his attention. Turbulent brown eyes met his own, and while there was anger, Neal swore he caught a spark of what looked like fear. In an attempt to calm him down before the whole office was drawn in, he said softly, "It's fine. I'm sure it's nothing. He said that he just wants to talk to me, not interrogate me."

"Unless, of course, there's something you need to be interrogated for, Caffrey," Fowler cut in, glancing back and forth between agent and consultant, a mocking grin on his face. Shock crossed Peter's face for a moment at the small jest, and Neal turned a glare on the OPR agent.

"Why would there be?" he shot back, sounding perfectly confident. "Check my tracker if you're worried."

"Trust me, I will," Fowler asserted, then turned to inform a bemused Hughes, "When SSA Kent arrives, send him up. He already knows I need to talk to him."

Hughes nodded, appearing slightly confused at the command, but he agreed, "Of course, Agent Fowler. I believe I don't have to show you to the conference room."

Fowler shook his head and motioned to one of the other OPR agents. He leaned down and whispered something into the man's ear, and then the other agent dipped his head in response and headed towards the elevators with the others trailing him.

"Caffrey, conference room," the agent declared, motioning the man forward. With a rueful glance towards a still frozen Peter, the consultant bowed his head and started towards the stairs. Trailing behind him was Fowler, a small smirk sprouting on his face again as he met Jones's eyes and acknowledged, "Agent Jones."

* * *

"What the hell is going on, Fowler?" Neal choked out, clenching his fists as he tried to reign in his nervousness. His back was to the glass wall so that in the event that someone, like Peter, happened to be looking in, he or she would not see what was being discussed. Fowler glanced at him from his position at the table, a bored expression on his face when he saw Neal's expression.

"I think you know more than I do, Caffrey. Sit." A chair was kicked out, and Neal folded his arms across his chest before raising his eyes defiantly. He knew it was childish, but the annoyed look on the man's face at the action was worth it. Fowler released a sigh, and then said sharply, "Agent Larkin. Sit down."

Neal let out a hiss at the name, but reluctantly complied and grabbed the chair then threw himself into it. Lazily, he brought his feet up onto the table and leaned back casually. Meeting the agent's steely gaze with a cold one of his own, he started, "You know, I actually don't know much anymore. Like, for example," he raised a hand and started to tick off points, "I have no clue where my partner is, or the danger she is probably in. I'm still not one hundred percent sure what that ridiculous music box does, other than leading me on a goose chase. I didn't know that you had created a backdoor into my home security system. And the one that gets me the most, I had no idea that Daniel Shaw would be in my apartment because of some plan of Beckman's that happened to coincide with my request for backup."

"Orders, sorry Caffrey," Fowler said, completely ignoring the man's rant. His eyes looked oddly gleeful. "You know how that goes."

Neal sneered and met the agent's eyes with a glare. He did know how that went, but a little warning would have been nice. They knew that he absolutely hated surprises. No spy enjoyed being snuck up on. The moment passed, and then Fowler looked away from his intense stare. The sneer on his face deepened.

"Why are you here, Fowler? I'm assuming it's not because you wanted to catch a glimpse of my pretty face," Neal said sarcastically. He knew the man would drag on forever if he did not address the metaphorical elephant in the room soon.

The man across from him let out a grunt that reminded Neal of a certain NSA agent, but ignored the jibe, before reluctantly pulling a file from his jacket and sliding it over to Neal. "Earlier this morning, there was a hit on General Beckman's name." He watched as the consultant paled and snatched up the file. "You're aware that because she is a public figure, it's not usually a problem. But as you can see, it wasn't just anyone who looked her up."

"Jones," Neal whispered in dismay, his eyes taking in the incriminating search history. "How did he even get her name?" A moment of thought later, he answered his own question. "Peter. He must have had Jones run the names."

"You might be right in that assumption since Agents Walker and Bartowski's files were also pulled, but in connection to the alias for Agent Shaw." Fowler paused, gauging the consultant's reaction. "At this point, we do not believe that they will be able to link the two together. As you know, all of your files were effectively destroyed with the start of Cascade, so you're only in the system as Neal Caffrey. But your name is still floating around out there, which worries us."

"What were the aliases that you created for Walker and Bartowski?" Neal suddenly asked, looking up from his examination of the file.

"What? Why would that matter?" The agent's face displayed his confusion over what the man was asking.

It seemed like Shaw had not mentioned much about the signal he had left for his contact. Which was odd considering that it was Fowler who was meant to be that contact in the first place. Moreover, he had apparently just handed the CIA agent the figurative keys to June's apartment without even asking why.

"It matters because less than two weeks ago I was accidentally sedated and let some names slip to Burke," he said lowly, pleased when the agent's eyes widened in comprehension. "You were supposed to be my contact, but instead I got Shaw, so I can understand why you're not quite in the loop yet. However, you know as well as I do just what these FBI agents are capable of. Operation Cascade is in danger of becoming a cascade of problems for all involved if anyone suspects anything."

"Agent Shaw never mentioned how poor the situation already was," Fowler responded grimly and then scowled. "As your case officer, I was entitled to the information."

"You know as well as I do that that just doesn't cut it anymore. You haven't been my case officer for all that long and now, she'll tighten the circle's security even more. We need to be prepared for a possible breach because if Peter does figure this out, it's likely Jones and the rest of the group will follow." Neal paused, contemplating something for a moment before he continued, "Although, if he does find out, I may be able to keep it to just him. He can keep his mouth shut when the situation demands it."

"Unless he's tortured for information. Resistance to interrogation isn't taught at Quantico," Fowler said, and Neal shot him a dirty look.

"I doubt it will come to that. And Peter's stronger than you give him credit for," Neal said, yet there was a mild hesitation in his voice. While it was probably true, it still bought up an unwanted image of a beaten and bloodied Peter in his mind, which bothered him more than he would admit.

"Why do you even bother with them, Larkin?" Fowler abruptly questioned, vaguely waving a hand towards the agents downstairs. "With this. Your skills could be better used out in the field with Agent Avalon, not stuck in this office. Are you even one hundred percent sure that there is a Ring operative in here?"

"You tell me," Neal said, sudden harshness leaking into his voice. He placed his hands on the table and leaned forward towards the wary agent. "After all, she made you OPR for a reason. What are _you_ doing in that big office of yours, playing solitaire?"

"I would certainly hope not," a familiar voice drawled, cutting into the conversation. Both Fowler and Neal glanced towards the man framed in the doorway, and both scowled at the same time. An amused grin had appeared on the man's face as he observed the two arguing. Pushing away from the doorframe, he strode over to the large table.

"Agent _Kent_. I can't say that I'm actually pleased to see you this time," Neal said, and looked thoughtful before shrugging his shoulders. "Not that my word matters anymore."

"Agent Larkin!" Fowler barked at the consultant, who just glared at them both and folded his arms across his chest, sulking.

"It's okay, Garret. He's just tired. I kept him up all night," Shaw said, pulling out a chair and moving to sit down. He paused mid-action, however, as the mood in the room suddenly turned from tense to awkward when his comment sunk in. As much as he tried to control the hot blush that suddenly began to crawl up his neck and face, he just could not. In an attempt to regain control of himself and the meeting, he said lamely, "That's not what I meant. You know what I meant."

Neal knew he was internally berating himself for that blunder. The comment certainly brought a small smile to his lips at the man's pathetic comeback, while Fowler just looked a bit sick at the thought. The comment for some reason reminded him of the other FBI agent downstairs, the real one. Maybe that's why he had been more trusting towards Peter, Neal mused. He had unconsciously been comparing the man to his old teacher. However, he was suddenly a bit happier about working with Fowler again. The man, despite looking slightly sick as if contemplating the two together in any way, had a small smirk on his face over Shaw's discomfort also. Shaw coughed uncomfortably, dragging Neal away from his thoughts.

"Right, anyway." The agent appeared to be composing himself. "At this point, General Beckman isn't overly concerned with Burke's level of knowledge. In fact," Shaw looked a bit mystified as he continued, "she is considering reading Jones and Burke in. Not with your mission of course Neal, but with The Ring."

"Are you kidding me?" Neal's eyes looked like they were about to jump out their sockets; he was shocked. "What happened to compartmentalization? If I had known that she would be open to this suggestion earlier, then I would have brought it up. "

"Nothing," the agent shot back, "However, The Ring is an intelligence group and as you know the CIA isn't really meant to operate domestically. Burke knows most of these agents better than we do, and that knowledge could be an asset." When Neal raised a hand to his forehead and opened his mouth, Shaw cut whatever he was going to say off. "Bryce, the Intersect is a machine, code and facts. You know as well as I do that that can't make up for the potential for real human intelligence. They can bring in an angle that the Intersect can't. And she is also growing more concerned over the potential repercussions from Burke and Jones discussing it with anyone else. There may be even more damage if this is found out because we fucked up with Carson and the situation exploded into something we can't control. We wouldn't tell them that you specifically are involved, but instead we would make it into a joint FBI-CIA mission."

That made sense. A controlled release of information could make both his mission and the upcoming Carson visit run smoother, since Shaw would not have to hide behind the pretense of being FBI (at least towards Peter and Jones). Although, from the information Peter had given to Neal about Agent "Kent", it was looking likely that the veteran FBI agent already suspected something. He knew that Shaw was not the first CIA agent, other than him, that was in plain sight.

There were probably already more undercover agents in the FBI than the General would have liked. While Fowler had originally been CIA – he was another liaison between the National Security Agency and the Agency – General Beckman had gotten him assigned to the project and knew he was trustworthy. In fact, most of the employees in OPR were really Agency employees. OPR, it had turned out, was one of the best places to plant spies, since they could access information and investigate employees relatively easily without raising eyebrows. Neal also knew that a few of the agents in the Bureau's Administrative Services division were CIA too, thanks to the Intersect. He had not had much contact with the agents, other than Fowler, simply because they were not directly involved with his mission. Still, it was a bit odd to realize that so many FBI agents were really just spooks, like him.

"That may be best," Neal finally spoke up after the long pause. "If Peter can focus on something other than me for a while, I'll be able to focus on helping you with Carson and working on my mission."

"I agree." Fowler looked displeased to admit it. "Burke needs to be told something."

"That may be, but Beckman wanted to consult with your Section Chief first and push him at little to see if he thought they could handle a joint operation. I'm expecting a call from her." Shaw pulled out his phone and flipped the top up. While he checked for messages, Neal took the time to observe his friend.

The man was dressed well, in a black suit with matching tie and his hair swept back. Neal was amused to note that he had opted to wear the glasses. They made the man look smarter, but he would never tell him that. It would only fuel the ego; at least that is what he thought. Considering that Beckman herself had made up the name of this alias, he found the connection even more hilarious, but he knew not to voice it. Shaw was tense enough as it was, and now was not really a great time to be a smart ass.

In the extended lull that still occupied the office, Neal turned to look out the glass window and caught Peter talking to Jones, an incensed expression on his face. He said something that made Jones cringe and walk away, leaving Peter standing in the middle of the room. A moment later, the man glanced up and caught Neal's dark eyes. Some emotion that the consultant could not quite place crossed the agent's face before he had to look away. The agent headed to the stairs and up to his office, where Neal lost sight of him.

He wondered what Peter had said to make Jones react like that. Peter rarely lost his temper, unless Neal did something he thought was dangerous, or stupid, or dangerous. The irony was that Neal was trained to handle the danger better than Peter himself was. Quantico only taught so much.

A ring from Shaw's phone echoed loudly in the room, and the man answered it with a, "Agent Kent."

Neal tried to strain his ears to catch what was being said, but he still could not hear anything other than Shaw's occasional "Yes." So instead, he watched the agent's face, even though he knew that he would not be able to see much. Hiding emotions was an important part of being a spy, and years of practice had allowed Shaw to show Neal absolutely nothing. It was frustrating, not just because he wanted to know what was being said, but also because lately his own emotions had been wild and hard to control. He knew it was probably just stress, yet that did not make him feel any better about the situation. His control kept slipping, and he had a bad feeling that soon it would slip too far.

"I understand, General. We won't," Shaw said, his tone even and giving nothing away to his audience. With a snap he shut the phone, before chucking it onto the table, where it made a sharp rasping sound as it slid on the glass. He let out a breath that he had not even realized he had been holding in, and wearily ran a hand through his dark locks.

"Well, Shaw, what's the verdict?" Fowler asked, as Neal stayed silent in his chair.

The man shot both of them an apologetic look and said slowly, "She wants us to wait until we check out the Carson gallery this afternoon. There's no use in raising an alarm if it doesn't have to be raised in the first place. We need to be absolutely sure that Carson is designing an Intersect." He directed the last comment at Neal, as if imploring something from the consultant. Then he addressed Fowler. "Garret, you're being assigned to this office and 'investigating' Agents Burke and Jones. Before we give them anything related to Cascade, they need to be cleared by her completely. Then they'll also have to sign a non-disclosure. She wants them to have proper clearance by tonight, just in case things move fast."

"Understood," Fowler said, sounding more than a little reluctant. Neal just nodded tiredly, seeing the reason behind the action. It would be easier for the man than last time, since most of the background checks for both agents were already completed. Actually, it was more paperwork than anything, but they needed an excuse and investigating the two would have to work. If it came from the "DOJ" then no one would question it. Of course, it was really the CIA though that did not matter in the long term.

"Good, shall we go meet the team then? Carson's expecting us at the gallery in a couple of hours."

* * *

Aaron Carson was nothing if not careful, heading to the security area in his gallery to check up on a hunch. He also freely admitted to be more than a little paranoid, but he figured that was with good reason: being placed on the CIA's watch list would do that to anyone. Although it was justified, it still made him tremendously angry sometimes, and airport security was hell (unless, of course, he had false passports, which had become extremely useful over the past few years). The Ring was a very gracious organization, at least to someone who agreed with their views and was able to provide them with the requested technology. Most recently, that had been something the group referred to as the Intersect X.

He had always considered himself just an artist. Ever since he was young, when his mother had gotten him his first camera, he realized that he had an eye for colors. From there it had bloomed and before he knew it, he was in college, double majoring in computer sciences and art. It had been an odd combination, he knew, but one that had been fruitful eventually. After finishing his dissertation on pixel coloring and presenting his computer program that took apart pictures before classing them into specific groups by color, it had been less than a week before he'd been approached by a man while he had been in America – a man who at that time claimed to be a representative of a potential buyer for the unique photo mosaics his program helped to create. It was, of course, later that he learned the man was from the Central Intelligence Agency.

After that, his life spiraled out of control. He had, of course, denied the numerous attempts at recruitment, despite the threats. As an artist at heart, he had no ambition to become involved with a government, especially one that did not mean much to him at all considering he was not American. However, the dark suits and sunglasses had seemingly followed him everywhere, not giving up. Therefore, he used what little information he had been given against the group; something about subliminal images and encoding them. At the insistence of his then-girlfriend, he had done some research, the subject of mind control being drawn to the forefront.

It would have been perfect blackmail, considering that the CIA had experimented with it before in the past. While he knew that the project might not have anything to do with mind control, he had the impression that it would still raise eyebrows that the men in black suits would not like.

He still remembered Julia's face when he had told her what was going on. Flinching slightly at the memory, he pushed it violently away in his mind, and then was jerked back into reality when he realized that he had made it to the white security room. Sighing, he scanned his palm in the vein recognition system, and then he punched in the four-digit code to the door a little harder than was necessary before it clicked open. The fair-haired man pushed the door open and strode in.

"David, I need you to do something for me," he said, getting straight to the point. The man who Carson addressed glanced up from the console he was working on.

"Sure Boss. What is it?"

There had been something awfully familiar about the 'consultant' that had come with the FBI agent, Burke. For the past day, it had been niggling at the back of his mind, and he tried in vain to place the man's face. He was completely frustrated now, and so he decided to finally just run the man's face through his system. With the Intersect X system, he had access to more government employees' information than was good, but he smirked when he thought of the damage he could do with even a single name.

"I want you to run a facial recognition scan on both the FBI agent and that consultant. Search though the Intersect files also," he said, striding over to the large screens on the wall and watching as David pulled the security footage from the day before onto the screens.

"Right away."

The man isolated a shot of Burke and the consultant, Caffrey, then blew up the images and sharpened them. Dots appeared on the men's faces before lines connected them together, forming a web over their features. Off to the side on another screen, pictures cycled through, the system comparing them to the two men on the main screens. With a sharp eye, Carson coolly looked over the men.

Peter Burke looked like a veteran agent. His serious expression and worn eyes told Carson that he had probably seen much in his time at the FBI. That or the man was just tired. Carson had caught the glint of a ring on the agent's left ring finger, so he guessed that Burke was married. A spike of jealousy shot through him, but he ruthlessly pushed it down. He could not afford to be distracted by what he knew were just petty feelings.

Turning his gaze to the consultant, he cocked his head to the side. This man was almost the complete opposite to Burke. Neal Caffrey was young, impeccably dressed, groomed, everything. It had not been mentioned in just what capacity of a consultant Caffrey was, but Carson had a feeling that it was not quite legal. However, it was not the nice threads and looks that he noticed most; it was the man's eyes. There was a darkness to the man's steely gaze that even Burke did not possess. To Carson, it was a familiar darkness, one that he had seen numerous times in Intelligence Agents. But that did not make much sense.

"Who are you, Neal Caffrey?" he muttered, his sharp eyes scrutinizing the scan closely while the faces flashed by.


	9. Requiem

**AN: **How was everyone's holiday? Hopefully good! Here is the next chapter. It's a bit shorter and quite expository in places, but the flashback is one of my favorites. I'm thinking of trying for shorter chapters and faster updates, so if you could let me know what you all think of that it would be appreciated. I'll post another poll in my profile also. This chapter is unbetaed (to give my awesome betas a break) so any mistakes are my own and feel free to point them out. Enjoy!

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Chapter Eight - Requiem

* * *

_He cracked open an eye, before groaning and turning away as bright light flooded his field of vision. It felt like his head had exploded the pain was so bad. Closing his eyes before he passed out, he leant his aching head back against the wall behind him, breathing deeply through the pain. The left side of his body felt odd, cold almost, and he reluctantly opened his eyes a bit slower so he could let them adjust. _

_Anyone else might have panicked at the sight that greeted him. Dark red liquid stained the grey shirt he had on, but he did not pay much attention to the growing blotch. The area felt uncomfortably sticky, like unwanted sweat had gathered there, and he was sure that if he lifted up the shirt his side would have been slick with it. Since it was not yet dried, he figured that he had not been sitting in the hallway for too long. _

_Shakily, as his muscles did not seem to want to listen to what his brain wanted, he brought up his right hand to the section of charred and wet fabric. He grimaced; it was unpleasant to see the red stain on his hand when he bought it away. Letting his head hit the wall again with a defeated thump, his hand dropped limply into the growing dark puddle around his body._

_Seemingly random images were starting to float across his field of vision. Flowers, bombs, cherry pie, guns. All the stimulus was intensifying the headache; however, even closing his eyes did not help. In fact, it did not help at all. Images still flashed across his vision, as if he still had them open. It was the oddest feeling, and he did not like it at all. He just hoped it went away after his mind became properly adjusted. Suddenly he stiffened and froze. Even though his eyes were shut, he could tell someone was quickly nearing by the vibrations their shoes created. He had a feeling he knew who it was though._

"_Oh Bryce." A troubled feminine voice spoke when the footsteps had stopped, and he felt a soft hand caress the side of his face as she knelt down next to him. Unexpectedly, an uncomfortable wetness began to gather in the corner of his eyes, and he scrunched them together even tighter in an attempt to stop the tears. "It's gonna be okay honey." _

_Her hand moved over his face again, and the woman started to run her fingers though his hair. The very familiar soothing motions turned out to be his undoing, and his eyes snapped open, meeting her sympathetic gaze. Seconds later, his brain felt as if it was going into overdrive and his eyelids fluttered. _

A folder with the CIA seal on the front; a picture of a young, dark-haired woman; National Clandestine Service; the Omaha Project; Operation Cascade; Bryce Larkin, Neal Caffrey; Katie Avalon, Kate Moreau…

_He was brought violently out of the stream of information when a sharp pain blossomed on the side of his face. His grey eyes were wild as he looked into her frightened face. He had had a horrible headache before she slapped him, and it was only made worse by the unexpected impact of her hand to the side of his face. A groan escaped him, and the tears that had been present earlier began to leak out of his eyes in earnest at the spike of pain so he put his head in his hands._

"_Bryce, what happened?" Her voice quivered slightly as she watched her partner lying on the floor in misery and a pool of what looked to be blood._

"_It worked Kate," he said, his voice rough. He looked up at her and she winced when she saw a streak of red across his pale face from where his hand had been. "The Intersect. The download. Everything worked."_

"_What did you see?" Kate asked softly, and then she raised a hand over his worn face again, this time brushing the unwanted tears away. She was honestly disturbed to see the man like this. Bryce had always had tight control of his emotions. Although, when she thought about it that was not always true. When it can to certain matters, he could be very emotional. _

"_You. Your files. It worked." He knew he was repeating himself, but at that point, it was about all he could say._

"_We need to get moving Bryce." Her tone sounded both jubilant and apologetic as she stood up from her cramped position. They had to get to the safe room in the building and wait until the building was clear of Team Bartowski. "Miles' team was incapacitated."_

"_Chuck?" he asked sharply, a bit more lucid than before and both dreading and hoping for the confirmation that would mean it was all worth it. Slowly, he began to leverage himself up from the wall, requiring some of Kate's help when he slipped a little in the puddle of blood. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself, and when he removed it, he was reminded that he was covered in the stuff; it left a large handprint and he got a sudden urge to laugh. His life certainly felt like a horror movie._

"_We watched it all happen." She slid his arm over her shoulder and helped steady him. "The Origin system is fully integrated with the Intersect. He'll be a bit sore in the morning."_

"_Chuck never was much of a fighter," he said bitterly. His old friend would absolutely hate the new modifications, but it had to be done. Moreover, Chuck would just have to adapt. The Ring certainly was not going to play nicely, and the Intersect needed to be as protected as possible._

"_I know Bryce," she said quietly, leading him down the corridor towards another wing of the large building. _

_He glanced back at the stop where his body had laid, the white tile hideously marked with what was supposed to have been his blood. There was so much of it. If Sarah or Chuck had not thought him dead before, the amount of the red liquid there now most certainly would have convinced them. _

_Nevertheless, in a way, he was dead. Bryce Larkin would officially be no longer. It would be Neal Caffrey stepping on the plane to New York later that night, and Caffrey who would be handcuffed and put into prison for bond forgery. Yet Neal Caffrey was not really being locked away; Bryce Larkin was. _

_Neal Caffrey was just getting started. _

_

* * *

_

Peter Burke was angry, and not that he would admit it, more than a little worried. His hands were shaking so badly that his signature would probably have been classified as a forgery, and in frustration, he threw his pen down on the desk. Placing his head in his hands, he tried to gain some control. It was difficult though, not knowing what was going on just down the hall. He hoped to God that whatever Fowler wanted was not going to turn out like last time.

Months ago, they had been working a robbery case, where it was suspected that a thief had switched out a rare pink diamond for a fake from the vault at an upscale clothing boutique. The boutique at been set to display it but after Neal, Jones, Cruz, and himself had gone to the scene of the crime and confirmed that the gem that was present was a fake, that had not happened. They had then gone back to the office to discuss possible suspects and motives. However, Peter had had a gut feeling that something was wrong when his consultant had seemed a bit distracted that morning, and once he heard OPR was in the office, it had grown into a very unpleasant ache. The agents with OPR always caused trouble, and that time had not been an exception.

Led by Garret Fowler, whom Peter had only ever heard of by reputation before that meeting, the group had soon accused Neal of stealing the gem. Based on the assumption that the ex-con had somehow gotten the information about the gem from one of the few FBI agents who knew the security details, an arrest warrant had been issued. However, there had been no way in hell anyone but himself would be slapping the handcuffs on Neal, which he had done right there in the conference room of the offices.

Therefore, Neal had walked the "perp" walk towards the elevators, his handcuffed hands hidden under a jacket. Peter had not been surprised as he watched the man handle all the unwanted suspicion with his head held high and a quiet confidence radiating from his sharp grey eyes. And a day later, those same eyes assessed him over the table that separated prisoners from visitors, their owner decked out in the brilliant orange of maximum security.

He had not pretended to understand just why OPR thought Neal had stolen the gem. While it was true that his consultant talked to many other agents in the offices, and was on friendly terms with a majority of them, he had done some digging like the good FBI agent he was. The only people who actually knew about the gem were Macy's team, and they had all been out of the office that week for a conference. Hughes had known too, but Peter knew that the Special Agent in Charge would never have mentioned something like that to Neal.

Therefore, the charges had seemed rather ridiculous based off that suspicion alone. The situation really blew out of proportion a few days later when Neal had gone to his arraignment. Somehow, the man had gotten the proceeding to be moved to the judge's chambers, which happened to be above a bakery. At the time the specific location did not mean much to Peter, until he had remembered Cruz mentioning that while in jail Neal had bought a bakery. He had only made the connection because the bakery's awning was oddly the same color orange as the maximum-security clothing the jail supplied.

Moreover, just as quickly as he had figured out something was going down, he had been witness to another Neal Caffrey escape. Leaping from the window in the judge's chambers, Neal had fallen four stories right onto the awning that had been conveniently moved. It had seemed like an eternity as he watched the man fall in front of him, but he had not been able to keep the small grin off his face when the man spotted him and shrugged before running off into a van as if he did stuff like that every day. Sure he recognized that Neal had been a con man and was rather good at evading bad situations, but not everyone would have the balls to jump from that high with just a piece of cloth to catch them.

Hughes had been upset, but Fowler had been downright pissed when he heard Neal had escaped from under their custody. Peter had not been entirely sure of just what Neal was doing, so he had attempted to stall and misdirect the search to give the man more time. Of course, he probably should have realized that the man would have turned up at Peter's house at some point, despite the surveillance that had been set up for that reason. He was surprised with the weariness that the man seemed to exude though.

After one hurried conversation later, his mind had about imploded. Neal had showed him documents that indicated his phone was bugged, and OPR was behind it. All the evidence pointed towards Fowler being dirty; the man had somehow set Neal up for the diamond theft. A dirty FBI agent was serious, if it was true, and considering that he could not go to the Bureau's version of Internal Affairs, it had taken a few days of covert work to even work the case properly. However, with Neal's help, they had finally figured out who had really committed the crime and he was cleared of the charges.

Because of that, OPR apparently had no reason to be present and they quickly left. That still had not answered the question of who had really set up Neal and bugged Peter's phone, so as the group had been getting in the elevators he had confronted Fowler. Surprisingly the man had actually let something slip. For some reason OPR was investigating him personally, and he had a feeling that Neal was involved somehow. The appearance of the group today had surprised everyone, but it was whom they wanted and for what that had been most shocking.

There had only been a few occasions where his consultant helped other agents with a case, so it was not entirely odd that he was called to share his expertise. What was odd about this instance was that it was OPR asking. OPR and the mysterious Agent Kent who was set to consult on the Carson case that afternoon.

So now, he was sitting at his desk angry because he was not told what Neal was helping with; worried that it would turn out like last time and his consultant would be back behind bars; worried for a man who he considered a friend of a sort. Ever since the clinic incident his concern had skyrocketed as he observed that friend withdraw into himself a little more every day, even more so these last couple of days. While Peter had to admit that he was extremely curious about what the man had mentioned while drugged in that clinic, Neal had not remembered anything that had been said so it would not matter much anyway. At least that was what he was led to believe. He was not quite sure what to make of the small but noticeable changes though.

Sighing, he decided to make a phone call and he picked up the cell before hitting the first number on his speed dial. After a ring, the person on the other end picked up, her familiar voice making him smile.

"Hey you. How's work? Satch, that's not for you! Shoo! Get down."

"Hey El," he said weakly, and he knew his wife Elizabeth caught the frustration in his voice when he could no longer hear her struggles with their dog. She was probably setting up for a catering service or something like that. Her business, Burke Premier Events, was an event consulting service and it was quite common that some of her clients stopped by the house for consults. It was also common that Satchmo, their golden retriever, would follow her around the house. They sometimes joked that he was the son they did not have.

"Oh no. I know that voice. What's Neal done this time?"

He laughed quietly, the smile on his face getting a little larger at her disapproving tone. "For once, nothing. Yet."

"Well, what's wrong then? You're obviously upset to be calling me so soon in the morning."

"Hey, since when was it wrong for a man to want to call his beautiful wife," he asked, spinning his chair around so he was looking out the windows at the bright sunlight day. Peter knew she was not going to buy that comment one bit.

"Peter," she said a warning tone in her voice. Despite the fact that he could not see her, he could still imagine the glare she had on her face. He let out a shaky sigh, and quickly debated what to tell her.

"It's nothing really. Our Internal Affairs people are visiting and the office is a bit crazy right now."

"OPR." He was not all that surprise that she remembered the acronym. After all, he had ranted about them enough. "Aren't they the ones who you thought bugged our phones? That doesn't sound like nothing Peter."

"Yeah, that's them. I haven't been able to figure out what they want yet. Reese has been tightlipped about it," he said, hesitation creeping into his voice, which she caught. Ten years of marriage and she could still read him like an open book.

"And what does Neal think? After all, if I remember right he isn't too fond of that one agent. Flower or whatever his name was."

Peter snorted and said, "Fowler. And I wouldn't know what he thinks. I haven't gotten a chance to talk to him since they arrived. He was carted off to the conference room to discuss a case that they apparently needed him to consult on."

"But you don't believe that," she said softly. "Peter, do they think he did something?"

He had no clue what to think. Experience told him that if they thought Neal was guilty of something, they would have arrested him by now. It could be entirely possible that the consultant was really needed for just that, consulting. The fact that it was for the Department of Justice was also plausible, considering that the department itself was very large. Still, it was OPR and that made him leery.

"I just don't know El. He didn't seem all that surprised by it, though this is Neal. His poker face is rather good," he grudgingly admitted. Glancing at his desk, his eyes caught the drawer where he had stored the information Jones had given him that morning. Nevertheless, that poker face was not always perfect. As the information within that file proved.

"Well, that does certainly sound like Neal."

"You're tell-" He was interrupted by a knock on the glass door to his office, and he swiveled the chair around to see who it was. Jones was standing there, looking a bit troubled. He gestured at Peter to come out, and the agent acknowledge him, motioning he would be one second. The man behind the glass nodded back and walked towards the conference room. "Sorry El, but Jones is calling me."

"Tell him I said hello. And go catch the bad guys," she joked. "Just be home by dinnertime."

"I'll try," he said, both of them knowing that he would in all likelihood not make it. That was what he loved about her though. She understood the job.

"And tell Neal he's invited. As long as he brings one of his fancy wines too."

"I'll do that." She had not seen Neal in a while, and he knew if anyone could get the man to talk, it would be Elizabeth. He exhaled heavily and said, "Thanks El."

"You're welcome. Love you."

"Love you too. Bye."

He snapped the phone shut and stared at the display. Talking with Elizabeth always made him feel better, and that call was no different. Glancing again at the drawer that held the file on the names Jones had run, he got a weird feeling in his chest. It felt like foreboding, but he was not sure why. What was it with this that was bothering him so much? Peter did not know, though he hoped to get some answers soon.

After checking to make sure that his phone was set to vibrate, he shoved it in a jacket pocket and got up. Mentally forcing himself to switch gears, he opened the glass door and started towards the conference room. It was time to meet the new consultant.


	10. Coffee and Consultants

**AN: **Yeah! I actually got this out a little earlier than I thought I would. That's what happens when you spend all day writing for your English class though! I'm amazed that I got over 1,000 words of this done in a little over an hour. Anyway, the story is starting to move a little faster now, and next chapter there will be some action finally. That doesn't mean the story is ending though! Only the first part of the story :D Big thanks to all my reviewers, alerters (which isn't really a word, but its 2 in the morning so cut me some slack please!), and favorites. Sorry I haven't responded, but I've barely had time to write lately. Instead I'll just give you this chapter! *unbetaed so all mistakes are my own*

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Chapter Nine - Coffee and Consultants

* * *

Fowler was coming out of the conference room as Peter was going in. The man had a small smirk on his face when he caught Peter's eyes, but he only scowled back in return. It wouldn't do any good to instigate anything, so he kept his mouth shut and continued into the conference room. Neal was seated at the long glass table, pouring over a file of some sort. Jones was powering on his laptop, and Lauren was eyeing the new consultant with some unidentified emotion that Peter didn't really want to think about.

The man of the hour was seated at the head of the table, his black glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he was looked over a file. Peter could immediately tell that this man was not a "normal" FBI agent. He was a bit too well dressed. They all glanced up when he opened the door.

"Ah! You must be Agent Burke," Kent said, rising out of the chair and leaning over to enthusiastically shake Peter's hand. "SSA Kent. But you can call me Daniel. Or Dan if you prefer it." The man grinned brightly, and gestured towards the file he had been looking at. "I know your superior already alerted you to my arrival so I figured we could just get started. We were just going over the forensics report. Your guys are very good."

Peter felt a bit stunned; the agent seemed like he had had one too many lattes. He slowly caught up and was able to respond, "Nice to meet you too. They sent it up already?"

"Well, no," Kent said, sounding sheepish. "It was my first stop when I got here. Since I couldn't get to the scene, I figured I should check out the evidence before we started. I just picked up the files to save the poor clerk the trip."

"I see," Peter said slowly. He reached out for the file that Kent extended and moved to sit next to Neal. The man didn't even look up, apparently so absorbed in the report. "What did they conclude?"

"Well, there were numerous latent prints around the scene," Lauren said, having dragged her gaze away from Kent to look at Peter. "But all of them either matched Carson, or one of his employees."

"So the prints were a dead end."

"Not exactly," Neal finally spoke up, finally glancing at Peter. "It's possible that the thief wore gloves, and left no print."

"Or it was an inside job," Jones pointed out.

"In which the thief did leave their prints, but it wouldn't matter. Did the background checks come back yet?" Neal directed the question at Kent, and Peter felt a bit put out for some reason.

"They did, and they were all clean," Kent said, frowning as he flipped through the file. "Not even a traffic ticket."

Jones whistled in appreciation. "Must have had some good driver's ed teachers."

Kent broke into laughter, and they all looked at him. Neal was thankful that the other agent's attention was not on him, since he shot the laughing man a glare. He had no clue why Shaw was acting like a hyperactive kid. Although it was mildly entertaining, it was so different from the personality he was used to from the man that it was a bit unnerving.

"That was a good one Agent Jones. Driver's ed," Kent said, shaking his head and removing his glasses to theatrically wipe at his eyes. Jones seemed a bit shocked, as did Lauren who was now eyeing the agent with disdain.

"Right," Neal said, attempting to steer the conversation back to the case. "Do we know if forensics found any traces of blood? That picture did appear to be dropped. It's entirely possible that one of them was injured."

"That's good," Peter said, flipping through the report. "Says here they found evidence of something in the cracks between the floor tiles. Looks like blood."

"In between them?" Jones asked incredulously.

"They thought it looked like it was scrubbed," Kent chimed in.

"That wouldn't make any sense though," Neal muttered. "If the thieves knew that Carson would notice his security system was down, then why take the extra time to scrub the floor? Why not get out as soon as possible?"

"That inside job is looking more and more credible," Peter said, meeting Neal's eyes before glancing at Kent. "You're the expert on the security system. Any flaws that an insider could capitalize on?"

Kent looked thoughtful for a second, then said, "Well, there are a few I suppose. That particular system was developed by a company called Fortress Security, and is extremely similar in design to many that I have worked with."

"With the Bureau? Or your previous position?" Peter asked quietly. It was a legitimate question, and Kent knew it, but it was also a rather loaded one.

"Both," Kent answered shortly, his demeanor indicating that any more questions about his 'previous position' would not be answered. "It's not an uncommon company for criminals. Many of the specialists who work at Fortress are ex-criminals, not a lot unlike Mr. Caffrey here."

Neal scowled at his friend, who smiled in response, well aware of Peter watching them. He really hated being reminded of his criminal status and felt all too ready to smack that grin off Shaw's face. However, he knew that it would not be right to hit a consultant. He was comforted a bit with the fact that he could make it up to the man later, away from Peter's eyes.

"And the FBI knows about this company?" Lauren spoke up, apparently shocked at the idea of a security company run by criminals. Ex or not.

"I said 'many', not all," Kent shot back. "They also employ ex-law enforcement and a few civilians. It's a legit business, and they have consulted with us before. You might have heard of the Roark case."

"Of course," Peter said, leaning back in his chair. "That was down in California wasn't it?"

Despite knowing exactly what the case was, considering he had helped bring Roark down, Neal plastered a confused look on his face and asked, "The Roark case? I haven't heard of that one."

"You wouldn't have. You were in prison when it happened," Peter said absentmindedly.

"It was in California," Kent said, answering Peter's question before addressing Neal. "Roark Instruments was a computer software company, who at the time, had a security system much like Carson's. Five years ago, they had created an open-source operating system that came to the attention of the FBI when it was discovered that the system contained a virus. That virus would be able to take off information from a user's hard drive which the company could then access."

"And now, many people keep their bank and credit card information stored in their computers," Neal finished, an impressed look on his face. "That's brilliant."

"Yeah, well it wasn't so brilliant for the millions they ripped off," Peter said sharply. "After the public found out that their information wasn't as secure as they hoped, the White Collar Unit was flooded with calls."

"Isn't that usually a Cyber Crimes thing?" Neal asked curiously, leaning back in his chair and idly spinning a pen in his hand.

"It is, but Cyber Crimes often works with us. All white collar crimes agents have some training in cyber crime, and Macy's team deals almost exclusively with them." Peter said. He paused, as if realizing they had gotten off track. "We heard about the raid on Roark, it sounded like it was a difficult one."

"Oh, it was. We ended up just blasting some doors down because the security was that tight," Kent said slowly. Neal recognized the look that was forming on the man's face. He'd thought of something. "But if Carson really has a system like that, then we may be in luck."

"Why do you say that?" questioned Neal, and he placed the pen back on the desk before picking up the file. He spread it out on the desk, and looked frustrated. "From what I'm seeing, it seems like everything is a dead end."

"Not necessarily," Kent cut in, pointing at Peter and grinning. The FBI agent for his part just appeared confused at the man singling him out. "What if we don't look at it as a security system. What if," he leaned forward in his chair excitedly, "we look at it as a computer system. As a type of cyber crime. What's one of the first things you search for?"

"It's origin. Records. There are a few different things we could check," Peter said.

"Records," Neal said, his head snapping up and he met Peter's eyes. "We look at their records."

"Exactly." Kent got up from his chair and walked around the table to Neal's chair. His eyes scanned the documents spread out on the table, but he didn't see what he had apparently hoped for and he leaned against the table. He glanced at them all before continuing, "We had trouble getting into Roark, but once we were in we could access almost anything. And one of the first things we found was a security log. Someone had tried to delete a huge section of the logs, and it didn't work. There was a bug in the system where it would send the deleted files to a different folder, instead of the trash. It was only later that we found out the security company had made the bug on purpose, and inserted it into all of their systems. It's designed as a way to back-up the files and prevent deletion of certain information."

"Who would want to delete security logs?" Neal said, understanding the logic.

"Right. The logs kept a list of who came and went in specific areas at specific times. Since Fortress did Carson's system it's a fairly safe bet that we can do the same in this case," Kent said, a grin stretching across his face again.

"You think Carson will give us access to his system?" Neal asked. "He seemed a bit protective of it last time."

"Why wouldn't he? I'm sure he wants to catch this guy just as much as we do," Peter said. He caught a look passing between Neal and Kent, but was confused as to what that could mean. It was odd how compliant Neal was being. Usually if another consultant, or agent, was bought in, he'd be a bit more active, or annoying. The stillness and focus he was showing, most certainly was not normal Neal.

"Unless Carson was in on it," Jones suggested. "But why call the FBI on himself? And why steal it in the first place?"

"It doesn't make much sense either way," Peter said, shaking his head. "In any case, we should check it out again this morning, see if there's anything we missed. Lauren and Jones, I want you two to stay here and go over the background checks again. Specifically bank accounts. Watch for any large cash deposits made recently. If it is an inside job, that would be the place to start. Neal and I will go check out the gallery again, and see if maybe we can't find those logs."

"Hope you don't mind if I tag along," Kent interrupted, sounding a bit upset to be excluded. "I do have some experience with computer systems."

Peter jerked with surprise. He had forgotten about the fact that Kent was their consultant also now, and he was sure Hughes would not be happy if he didn't let the man join them. Eyeing the man's eager face, he consented and consulted his watch. "Fine. We'll leave at ten. That gives you some time to settle. I'm sure it was a long flight."

"You have no clue."

* * *

Shaw sighed as he leant over the sink, then raised his eyes to meet Neal's in the bathroom mirror. The man had an intense look on his face as he watched Shaw. He was standing next to the hand dryer, and he had his arms folded across his chest as he always did when he was thinking.

"Something feels wrong about this."

"I know," Shaw said, turning around and leaning back against the sink so he could face Neal. He copied his friend's pose and continued. "Believe me, I know."

"Why did Carson call the FBI for a theft? You didn't steal anything." Neal looked frustrated. "We're missing something."

"I agree. Trust me, its nothing I haven't asked myself within the past two days." Shaw shook his head and said, "The only thing that makes any sense would be that he's using the FBI as a shield. If he thinks the CIA is on to him, this investigation could be a good cover to move the Intersect."

"You're so sure that he made one."

"I don't know, you tell me," Shaw said, gesturing towards Neal.

"All I know for sure is that the man creeps me out a bit, and his pictures give me splitting headaches that don't want to disappear. Got any Tylenol?" Neal asked, rubbing his temples wearily. "I'm running on empty and skipped breakfast. Plus, I really don't want to let on to Peter that I'm not one hundred percent. He'd send me home so fast I'd get road burn. It's not funny," he mumbled at Shaw's laughter.

"Yes it is. I don't carry painkillers with me, but there may be some in the med kit in the car. I'll check when we leave for the gallery," Shaw said. "Maybe it will stave off another headache."

"Let's hope so." Neal moaned slightly as a spike of pain shot through his head. He closed his eyes, tiling his head back and pressing his palms against his eyes tightly. The sound of harsh breathing echoed in the small bathroom. "Because I'm not sure if I will be able to handle looking at them for long. For some reason they mess with the Intersect."

"Really? Interesting. I wonder why. Do you think it's the pictures?"

"Could be," Neal said roughly, eyes still closed. "It felt like I was trying to flash but couldn't. Whatever it is, it's painful." He let his hands drop down to his sides, and slowly opened his eyes, meeting Shaw's now concerned ones. "We should get back to Peter before they suspect something. We've been in here for a long time. Never know what conclusions they might draw."

Shaw growled when Neal wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. His concern was suddenly gone, replaced with anger. He jerked the bathroom door open and gestured for Neal to go first. As the man was passing by, he waited until he was within earshot before whispering menacingly, "You bring that up again and I'll make you scream, but it won't be in pleasure."

* * *

Peter tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for the elevator to make it to the right floor. His arms were full of coffee and a brown paper bag from the café across the street. Whosoever idea it had been to build a café across from an FBI office, should have been given a medal. The standard issue bureau coffee, as Neal liked to call it, was not always palate worthy and considering that Macy's team had pulled an all-nighter, it was better off to get fresh stuff. Plus, he knew that Neal had probably not had breakfast yet.

Now the delicious aroma of Italian roast and cinnamon was filling the small space, and he could hear his elevator companions shifting around. If they wanted espresso that bad, they could get it themselves, for god's sake. Finally, the bell dinged, and the doors opened. Shuffling out of the elevator, Peter was met with Kent and Neal. The two had apparently just came from the adjacent hallway. Kent was whispering something to Neal, who was rubbing his forehead as if he had a headache. The man certainly looked paler than normal, and Peter was suddenly glad that he had gotten food. When they saw Peter, hands laden with coffee and a paper bag, Kent abruptly stopped his one-sided conversation and rushed to help carry the drinks while Neal hastily removed his hand from his head.

"Here, let me help," Kent said, grabbing the cardboard drink carton from Peter. "Oh, smells good!"

"Thanks," Peter said, a little breathlessly. "I hope you don't mind Italian roast. Wasn't sure what to get."

"Anything with caffeine is fine by me." Kent smile in appreciation and headed towards the glass doors of the office.

"I also got some rolls, since I know you probably didn't eat any thing for breakfast," Peter said, addressing Neal who was trailing behind them. "You're gonna get sick one of these days," he scolded.

Neal just grinned brightly, the effect a little ruined though due to the dark rings under his eyes and his pale skin color. "Me? I never get sick. Though if I did, I'm sure your wife would be glad to take care of me. Her chicken soup is the best I've ever had."

Peter and Kent snorted, at the same time. Neal frowned, eyeing the two.

"That reminds me," Peter said, setting the bag on the desk Neal sometimes used, before turning to the man. "My wife invited you to dinner again. With a condition."

The look on Kent's face was a bit funny as he glanced at Neal. It was obvious he had no clue what was going on, although it looked like he desperately wanted to ask.

"She knows I'd never pass up dinner at the Burke's. What's the condition?" Neal reached for the bag, and grabbed a napkin and cinnamon roll.

"Her words were, 'bring one of those fancy wines'." Neal laughed, and nodded.

"Sounds like a deal. What is she planning?"

"I have no clue," Peter said, and took a sip from his coffee. "It's a surprise."

"I'll bring a white and a red then."

Nodding, Peter casually turned to Kent and said, "I'm sure my wife wouldn't mind another guest. Would you like to join us?"

It was the question Peter had been wanting to ask ever since he saw Neal and Kent together in the conference room. There was something between the two, and he had not quite figured out what it was. The covert looks, whispering, and ease of which Neal seemed to have gotten along with the new consultant had thrown Peter for a loop. Neal was certainly not acting like Neal.

He was always wary of law enforcement of any kind, which was understandable considering his felony status. That did not appear to be the case between these two. It was almost as if they knew each other, but that really didn't make sense.

Dinner could be a perfect excuse to get them in a small room together so Peter could just observe how the two interacted. Moreover, he was positive that he could get El to interrogate, wrong word, politely inquire about the consultant. Her calm and friendly personality had helped him with Neal, and he was sure that she would notice the difference in the man when he was with Kent.

"W-wow," Kent stuttered, his eyes wide. He seemed surprised. "Thank you for the offer, really. And I would love too, but I haven't even checked into my hotel yet. I'm sure you understand."

Peter nodded, looking a little put out. He glanced at Neal who was watching the exchange with amusement. "I do. You're welcome to stop by later tonight though. I'm sure El would love to meet you, and since Neal will be there too you can hear him talk your ear off this time about security systems and how to crack them."

Kent choked on the gulp of coffee he was taking, his eyes watering from the burning sensation it had caused, and Peter slapped him on the back a couple of times. When he was finally able to talk, he rasped. "Sounds like my kind of party."


	11. Undercover

**AN: **And the next chapter of Cascade. Hope you guys like it, and it's definitely a fast-paced chapter! I also want to say thanks for hitting over 100 alerts. You guys are awesome :) Big thanks to AwesomeQueenoftheLab for beta-ing this chapter. If you haven't read her White Collar/Chuck crossover one-shot, Casey vs. The AntiSuit, go check it out! It's a great little story.

* * *

Chapter Ten - Un(der)cover

* * *

It was bright out, the sun beating down on the small group of Peter, Kent, and Neal as they walked across the full parking lot. Neal had one of his black fedoras on, thankful that he had grabbed it when he had stopped at June's earlier. The brim provided some semblance of protection against the light, but his head still throbbed in time with his heartbeat. All he wanted to do was lie down and catch up on some sleep. However, he had a feeling that would not be happening anytime soon. They had to go to the gallery, deal with Carson, and somehow get the security logs from him.

Neal knew that was easier said than done, particularly because of how protective the man had seemed over his computer system the other day. It was entirely likely that he would not let them anywhere near the system, and it was entirely likely that if he did, Kent would not be able to access it. True to his education, it had appeared, at least to his trained eyes, that Carson created the system from scratch. That would certainly make sense if he had designed another Intersect.

Without knowing the specifics of the interface, it could be hard for them to even perform a search. He just hoped that he would not have to do it himself, since Peter did not know that he had a real degree in computer engineering. After all, something like didn't really fit into his Neal Caffrey persona.

They had come upon the familiar sight of Peter's Taurus, and the agent headed towards it. Before he had made it two steps, Kent seized his arm.

"I hope you don't mind if we take my car. Without knowing the type of equipment we might require, it would be easier." Kent grinned easily, releasing his grip on Peter's arm when the agent glowered at him. "I've got all the computer stuff we might need."

"Yeah, sure," Peter conceded, looking a little forlorn. Neal knew that he loved any excuse to drive that car. "Let me just, ah, grab my sunglasses. I'll catch up."

Kent inclined his head, and motioned for Neal to follow him. He glanced at Peter, silently asking for permission, and when the agent gestured for him to go on, he did. A familiar SUV was parked only a few spots down. He was a little surprised that it was the car he had driven the night before, but then he realized that Shaw had probably picked it up after their talk in the Studio. If he was completely honest, that whole discussion felt like it had taken place years ago. So much seemed to have happened.

Kent, for Neal was now careful to avoid referring to the man as Shaw even in his head while they were undercover, grabbed his arm when they reached the driver's side of the car. Casually leaning forwards to listen to what the man wanted, he was startled when the sensation of cold steel touched his hand.

"Take it," Kent said seriously, meeting Neal's surprised eyes. "There's no way I want you in there with a potential Ring operative without backup. Your knife might not be enough, and your normal sidearm would be difficult to conceal. So, I figured you might want something familiar."

Neal dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement, and smoothly slipped the offered gun from Kent's hand into his inside jacket pocket. He was tempted to make some smart comment about having the man's back, but refrained and accepted three magazines, which he assumed were loaded. His eyes scanned the lot's open space, searching for anyone who might have seen the exchange. There were a few agents talking a couple of spaces down, something about a BAU, but nothing seemed amiss. Peter was still over by the Taurus and could see them, but it didn't hurt to be cautious. Moreover, there were cameras mounted on the streetlights. It was the FBI parking lot, after all.

"Thanks," he whispered back, faintly making out the sound of approaching footsteps. "I'll clip it to the tracker. Stupid thing might be useful for once."

Kent's answering laugh had apparently caught Peter's attention, because when the man came in sight he flashed Neal a suspicious look over the top of the car. "What's so funny?"

"We were just discussing the–what did you call it?" Kent asked and turned to Neal as if trying to remember something. He opened the driver's side car door, Peter and Neal following suit with theirs, and slid into the leather seat. He completely missed Neal's dirty look.

"Ah–standard bureau issue car. It's not quite as nice as our Taurus, Peter," Neal said, stepping into the car. As he buckled the seat belt, he met Kent's brown eyes in the mirror and swept them towards Peter. Kent, getting the message, inclined his head slightly.

"My Taurus. Not our," Peter grumbled as he reached for his own seat belt. Slipping on his sunglasses, he continued, "Oh, and I thought you might want these."

After belting in, the agent blindly extended a closed hand into the back of the car, and Neal cautiously held out a hand. Two small white tablets dropped into his open palm, and he opened his mouth to deny them.

"Peter, I don't–"

"Neal." There was a distinct warning tone in the agent's voice causing him to wince, and he took the offered bottle of water. "Just take the damn pills. They're not sedatives."

A choked laugh came from the driver's side, which was met with a curious look from Peter and a withering glare from Neal. "Sorry, frog in my throat," Kent said, his eyes glittering with mirth.

Reluctantly, Neal knocked back the pills and took a sip of the water. He thought it a bit worrisome that Peter had noticed he was in pain, but he remembered that the agent had caught him sleeping in the conference room. There had probably been many a time where Peter had done the same thing. Those chairs were extremely uncomfortable, and if the agent thought that was why he was moving slower than normal, so be it. He didn't really feel like telling him that it was really his head that was aching because of an embedded computer system malfunctioning due to a few pictures he had seen in a gallery where the owner was suspected by the CIA of making a rogue computer system just like the one causing his head to ache. It hurt to think about, so he just waited for Kent to distract Peter.

"Do you mind entering the address?" Kent asked Peter, handing the agent a small GPS system that he had pulled out from under the seat. The agent gingerly took the device, and began fiddling with it as Kent started the car. "It's a hassle, but the car doesn't have a built-in one like your Taurus. How many miles to the gal does that thing get? I've been looking for an off-duty car–"

With Peter now successfully distracted, Neal could work on moving the gun from his pocket to his ankle. He wasn't exactly sure what gun Kent had given him, but he had noticed the small size. Slipping a hand into the pocket, he grabbed the gun and slowly brought his hand down towards his lap. Even if Peter did look over the front seat's high dividers, the gun was still concealed behind his jacket, so it wouldn't look odd. With his other hand he casually reached for the water bottle he had haphazardly thrown on the leather seat, before sending it careening to the floor. The bottle hit with a distinctive plunk.

"Oops," Neal muttered, and he shot a fleeting look at the two in the front seat who were paying no attention to him, as engrossed as they were in their conversation. He smirked to himself before bending down and slipping the gun towards the floor. A glimpse at the side of the silver barrel revealed the faint lettering declaring it a Millennium, while the other side said PT111 Pro. Shaw–no, Kent really–had given him a very familiar pistol.

He had used Taurus handguns ever since he had worked with the company for the CIA. The company itself was based in South America, although they did have an American manufacturing plant, and on one occasion he had been sent to get information on their weapons for the Origin system. The PT111, a 9mm just like his larger PT92, Kent gave him was definitely one of his favorites. Designed with concealed carry in mind, the little gun had saved his life many a time.

Thankfully, the black holster it was currently in had a sturdy clip instead of noisy Velcro. He glanced up again, checking to make sure Peter was still involved with the discussion with Kent. Then he slowly drew up his left pant leg and snapped the clip onto the plastic band from his ankle tracker. The light was out on it, and he almost swore when he remembered that he forgot to reactivate the stupid thing. Not that it would matter, since it was unlikely Peter would need to look up the tracking data anytime soon. Even if he did, it would show that he was moving around at home, a feature that he had programmed into the device. If it was off and he was ever kidnapped, though, he'd be screwed.

"–practically drives itself," Peter was saying, gesturing towards the front of the car.

"Hmm, sounds like it might be a good choice, then. I'll make sure to check into it when I get back to California," Kent said, briefly glancing at the GPS unit and turning the steering wheel to the right. "Got a friend who's into cars. Thinks I should get a Ford Crown Victoria. So I told him… I told him if I wanted a cop car, I would have become a cop."

Laughter filled the front seat, and Neal felt an amused grin form on his face. He was pretty sure he knew who wanted Kent to get the Crown Vic. Although, he was surprised that the man was still alive after telling that to Colonel John Casey's face.

* * *

With the agonizing half-hour drive over, most of which Neal spent listening to Peter and Kent talk about cars like they had been best buds forever, they finally arrived at Carson's gallery. The painkillers had kicked in, and his headache had lowered to a dull shadow of its former self. Considering he wanted, and needed, to be as focused as possible, that was a relief.

He knew what could go wrong. He had mentally run through various bad scenarios while tuning out the other discussion. It gave him something to do.

The most obvious one was that Carson would become uncooperative when they discussed their theory of an inside job. The artist could defend his men all he wanted, but the fact that it looked like someone had actually taken the time to clean up the area was against him. The fact that Neal and Kent suspected him of making an Intersect was also against him; however, Carson didn't know about that. Hopefully it would stay that way, because the gun sure felt abnormally heavy on his ankle.

His mind was racing, still analyzing potential problems. This would be the first time since he had partnered with Peter where he was actually worried about his cover. All his other cases were cake compared to this one, which was made a bit more dangerous with the Ring directly involved. He knew that at some point it would come to a confrontation with the rogue group; it was the job he was sent to do, after all. Flush out the Ring in New York, and make use of the Intersect 2.0 system. As the years passed, he had accepted the idea that faking his own death was worth it. The Ring had been close to killing him; he needed to protect the Intersect, he needed to protect Kate. Those five years in prison had been hell, but they had helped him put things into perspective.

Jerking back into reality, he realized both Peter and Kent were staring at him from the front seats. "Yes?" he asked, unable to stop the slight defensive tone that entered his voice.

"We're here," Peter said, a bit unnecessarily Neal thought.

"I can see that. What are you two waiting for?" Neal asked evenly. He knew they had been waiting on him, but he wanted to see if Peter would say anything. The agent just shook his head, casting a fleeting glance at Kent before opening the car door.

Once Peter was out of the car, Neal met Kent's eyes in the rearview mirror, and saw the silent question–was he okay? Shrugging in response at the rather useless question, he ignored the look Kent threw at him and opened the car door.

"The gallery is closed because of the robbery," Peter said, walking purposefully towards the glass door that led into the building, "but Carson said we could just go up."

"You talked to him?" Neal asked, trailing behind with Kent.

"This morning." Peter opened the door and one by one they entered the foyer. The agent took off his sunglasses, while Neal removed his fedora. "While I was waiting for the coffee. I figured I should let him know that we'd have an extra agent tagging along."

"Consultant," Neal said, watching the door shut behind them before glancing at the interior.

"Agent, consultant – same thing," Kent said grinning, stopping as he too noticed the welcome area.

Even though he had been in the area before, Neal thought that the front entrance to the gallery still held a certain sort of beauty that the gallery itself did not. Shiny white tile flooring gave way to white granite walls and a large desk of the same color that was situated directly in front of the doors. A waterfall that took up an entire wall, which looked to Neal to be about thirty feet tall or so, was behind the desk. The only thing separating the cascading water from the patrons and workers was a large pane of glass. To the right and left of the desk were sets of stairs leading up into the galleries themselves. Chairs and white marble coffee tables were scattered around the small room, the art magazines on top of them providing color to the otherwise blank room. Large potted white lily flowers were also strategically placed along the walls and in the corners, the green of their leaves making the room seem smaller and more personal.

There was an obvious intended effect of the white room–to relax and calm. When it was open, the soothing sounds of water and the murmuring of hundreds of people was probably calming. However, Neal's skin prickled. It reminded him of the security room of Carson's, which in turn reminded him of the whiteness of the Intersect room. Neal could sense that Kent felt the same way, and he saw the man tense up a little as they walked in. There was no one in sight, but a faint whisper of voices reached them in the open area, and he shot Kent a fleeting look behind Peter's back. Kent nodded, understanding that it was time to put their acting skills to the test.

They slowly got louder and louder, and Neal recognized one the approaching voices as Carson. Sure enough, moments later the man appeared coming down the stairs to their right, his highly polished black shoes first, followed by the familiar face. Almost immediately, Neal could feel the burning gaze of the man on his face. His heart jumped to his throat when he noticed that the man was alone, and the gun on his ankle suddenly turned into a comfort blanket.

"Ah, Agent Burke! And, of course, Mr. Caffrey." There was a definite spring in the man's step when he walked towards them, and that raised red flags for Kent and Neal. Carson seemed to rip his gaze from Neal's face and shook each of their hands with enthusiasm. He turned to Kent and held out a hand. "You must be Agent Kent. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise," Kent said, appearing to be a bit overeager. Carson just smiled, and directed his next gaze and statement towards Neal.

"Now, I believe Agent Burke mentioned something about the security logs over the phone. Why don't I show you to the security suite and we shall see what I can do."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," Peter said, completely oblivious to the dark undertone in the man's voice. The man grinned, and gestured for them to follow him up the glass staircase he had just came down from. Kent casually unbuttoned his jacket, which would give him quicker access to his sidearm. Only Neal recognized the movement for what it was.

"So, Agent Kent," Carson said, and paused suddenly as they came upon a landing. He turned dramatically, and focused his attention on the agent. Neal would have laughed at the flashy movement, but he saw that Kent was now really on edge at being addressed. "You are familiar with these types of systems?"

"You could say that. I've come across a few in my work with the Bureau," Kent answered, glancing towards the large glass windows as if something had drawn his attention.

The entire back wall of the gallery, from the roof to the ground level, was comprised of large glass windows that were intended to brighten the place. They provided a beautiful view out over the Hudson River and the city beyond. The stairways were also made of glass, and Neal eyes were suddenly drawn below when he thought he caught movement. This setting, where they were cornered twenty feet in the air, seemed like an odd place to stop for a conversation.

"With white collar crimes?" Carson asked curiously, overlooking Peter's growing look of impatience and folding his arms before leaning back against the white wall. The staircase had given way to landings that branched off to the left and the right, into the first floor of the gallery. It was set up like a large mall, making the gallery very open. Neal glanced down the hallways, but saw that they were clear of people. "I did not think you were from around here."

"I don't work in the white collar division. I run a team out of California, where we deal mainly with intelligence," Kent said, cautiously answering the question. With Peter standing there, he couldn't lie. The FBI agent wasn't being very observant, though, so it seemed like he missed the hesitation.

Okay, Neal definitely could make out movement below them. Unfortunately, there was a blind spot behind them since they could not turn to look back, so they could not see if anyone was moving up the staircase.

"Intelligence? Interesting," Carson drawled, looking a little pleased. He was now eyeing his fingernails, as if he was bored. "Mhm, so am I to assume that you have done your homework, Agent Kent?"

"Excuse me?" All three agents were confused with the odd question. The back of Neal's neck began to prickle uncomfortably, and he had to subtly wipe his sweaty palms against his pants. He took a deep breath and let his training do its job, calming his suddenly pounding heart and erratic breathing.

"On me," Carson elaborated, meeting Neal's stormy grey eyes with fiery brown ones. "Have you done your homework?"

"We run background checks on everybody," Peter said, looking confused. Something wasn't right.

Carson laughed lightly and glanced at Kent. "I am sure that you do, Agent Burke. But the Bureau does not know everything, do they, Mr. Caffrey?"

Kent suddenly made a movement towards his holstered weapon, but Neal saw him freeze, and he felt movement from behind them. The stairs had provided perfect cover for David and Hutchinson to approach and sneak up on the group. Out of the corner of his eye, Neal could see David had his gun drawn on Kent, who had been to the left of Neal. Hutchinson meanwhile had his gun trained on Peter to the right, and Neal didn't want to look at the man, but he did. He seemed stunned that what he thought would be a simple consult had suddenly turned into a hostage situation of sorts.

The familiar sound of a gun being drawn brought his attention back to Carson, who stood at the base of the next set of stairs with a grin on his face and murder in his eyes. A dramatic _click_ reverberated in his ears as the man pulled the hammer back on his semi automatic pistol.

"Are you going to answer the question, Mr. Caffrey?" Carson leered at Neal, who now felt as he had been punched in the gut, staring down the black barrel of the man's gun. The two agents at his sides had their hands up in the position of surrender, and when Carson jerked his gun and indicated Neal to do the same, he did so slowly. "Or would you like me to answer for you, Agent Larkin?"


	12. CtrlAltDelete

**AN:** First of all, thank you all! Over 100 reviews! 22 on that last chapter alone! You guys are so amazing. Thus, here is the chapter that everyone is waiting for. It was amazingly fun to finally write it. Funny side note, I watched Flightplan tonight, simply because Matt Bomer is in it playing a flight attendant. And guess what the bad guy's name was? Carson. Thought that was kinda awesome haha. Anyway, thanks to AwesomeQueenoftheLab, for her great beta work, and onto now the story! :D

* * *

Chapter Eleven - Ctrl-Alt-Delete

* * *

As a spy, he was trained to stay calm in any dangerous situation. Hand-to-hand combat, gunplay, and sneaking into the French embassy and downloading the entire hard drive of a diplomat's computer all required a level head. He had been trained in tradecraft, such as recruiting, psychology, surveillance and detection, and interrogation techniques–some legal, some not so much (not that the CIA would admit that one). In his case, paramilitary operations–such as parachuting, defensive driving, and weapons recognition–was also critical. During his time with the Central Intelligence Agency, Bryce Larkin had killed, stolen, and kidnapped. His position within the organization was unique, considering he was both a technical intelligence officer and a clandestine services officer.

He had been skilled at what he did, and despite the five-year gap between the last time he had been Special Agent Bryce Larkin and the present time where he was Neal Caffrey, that training came back to him in a rush. The barrel of Carson's gun, which happened to be directed at Neal's head, admittedly accelerated the process, and pictures suddenly flowed across his eyelids as information flooded his brain. Normally, he was quite good at handling and hiding Intersect flashes, but with so much information it was difficult.

Neal was unable to tell how much time had passed. His grey eyes snapped open, and locked onto the fascinated ones of Carson. There was a look of understanding on the man's pale face that caused his heart to sink.

"You are one, aren't you?" Carson asked, stepping closer to him, the gun dropping slightly. He was shaking his blonde head, as if in disbelief.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Neal whispered, and he swayed slightly as a dizzy spell overtook him. His mind was still racing, trying to process the influx of information, and he was struggling to stay alert to the outside environment. When the world settled, he automatically tried to shift his stance into something more stable, in case he had to move quickly.

"I should have realized sooner when you had trouble with my pictures," Carson mumbled to himself, and hit his head with his free hand. "It makes sense. Omaha, Orion. I am so thick! I should have seen the connection."

"You do realize that you're holding two FBI agents, and a CI, at gunpoint?" Peter cut into the man's self-abuse session. Neal chanced a glance in the agent's direction and saw that he looked upset. His hands were on his head and he was directing the question at Hutchinson. The man was standing behind Peter, his gun pointed towards him. Laughter drew their attention back to Carson.

"A CI? Well, that's certainly what they would like you to think, isn't it, Larkin?" Carson brought the gun up again and emphasized his point by jabbing it towards Neal. That name, coming from the man's mouth, set Neal's teeth on edge.

"Like I said, I don't know what you're talking about. What more do you want from me?" Neal said, but knew his attempt at lying failed when Carson sneered, his brown eyes flashing.

"You can't fool me!" Carson snarled, moving forward. Neal noticed the predatory gleam in them, it he wanted to sneer. However, the gun's barrel felt cold where it suddenly touched his temple, and the man came too close. He stiffed as Carson continued. The gun slowly stroked down Neal's face, and the man's eyes followed its path lovingly."You idiots at the CIA think you are better than everyone else is. That you can do horrible things and get away with them."

"The what?" Peter asked, and Neal could hear the shock in his voice.

"We didn't kill Julia," Neal said quietly, keeping the man's gaze even when he stepped away from him. He didn't even want to look at Shaw, who he was now referring back to the man's proper name. Their covers were pretty much blown.

"Shut up!" Carson looked furious, breathing heavily, and the gun wavered a little before steadying. "You do not have the right to speak her name!"

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry," Neal said, opening his palms in a show of surrender.

"Your plan backfired. Rather spectacularly, if I must say so." Carson suddenly turned his attention to Shaw, but kept his gun on Neal. "I recognize you. It's a bit sad that the CIA has to resort to something so low as breaking and entering. You could have just produced a warrant."

"Would you have let us in?" Shaw asked, glaring at the man. The effect was frightening, even though he had his hands on top of his head in a gesture of surrender.

"You will never know, now will you?" Carson was just taunting them now. "I must thank you, though. Bringing the FBI in provided the perfect cover for smuggling out my painting."

"So there was never a theft?" Peter asked, and Carson glanced at him. Neal could tell the agent wasn't really following the conversation, but the word 'smuggling' had obviously caught his attention.

"Of course not. My paintings are not so popular as to be stolen. The only people who actually have an interest in them is the intelligence community, as your little friends Larkin and Superman over here could attest to."

"Why would the intelligence community want a bunch of mosaics?" Peter definitely looked confused, and he kept shooting glances at the other two. Neal met his FBI partner's eyes, pleading silently to leave it alone. He knew it was a moot point when Carson grinned.

"Would you like to explain how an Intersect works?" Carson mockingly asked Neal. "Or shall I?"

"I think I would rather show him," Neal said, before abruptly striking.

While the man had been talking, Neal had been watching. Specifically, the gun that was pointed at him. A plan had been forming in his head, and now he just hoped Shaw would catch on quick.

Before Carson registered what had happened, Neal seized the man's arm that held the gun and directed it away from his body. Rolling with his momentum, he used the man's arm as if he was the one holding the gun. He lined up the shot as best he could and squeezed off two rounds with Carson's gun.

The first one went wide of his target, Hutchinson, and he vaguely registered Peter flinching. There was the tinkling sound of broken glass. However, the second one hit true, and with a crack, Peter's assailant was down. It was really more like a crash, as he had gotten Hutchinson in the chest and the man had stumbled back, only to loose his footing on the glass stairs. A hideous streak of red was now smeared on the steps, like some kind of macabre painting. It was odd what you notice most after you shoot a man.

Another gunshot echoed in his ears, but this one was followed by a yelp of pain. He didn't have much time to contemplate the fact that it was Shaw who yelped, as Carson had finally reacted. The gun was jerked out of Neal's grip, and he ducked quickly to avoid being pistol-whipped across the side of his face. With a whoosh, it barely missed.

Grabbing the man's hand again, he twisted it in towards Carson's wrist and then outward, applying just the right amount of pressure. The man released the gun, which Neal caught, and fell onto his knees in pain. Lashing out, he kneed the fallen man in the face. The satisfying crack of a nose breaking reverberated in his ears, and he took a deep breath as he extended the gun towards the man's head.

"Satisfied? I know I am," he said, his tone even. He wasn't breathing hard, but his hand did shake a little. The adrenaline rush was intoxicating, considering he had not been in a fight in a while. He heard the sound of Peter drawing his own gun, and was relieved that the man had his back despite probably being too stunned to follow what exactly was going on. All he heard from Shaw was heavy panting, and he chanced a look in his friend's direction.

It was bad. Blood covered the man's left arm, streaming out from beneath Shaw's fingers where he gripped the wound. The gunshot that he had heard earlier had apparently hit its target. David looked smug from his position above the man, his gun directed at Shaw's head. From what Neal could see, the only injury David had sustained was a small cut lip. Shaw was glaring at the man, from where he was leaning against the glass partition, with a look of hatred Neal had not seen in a long time. The effect was a bit ruined by the pale skin and tight features.

"You do realize you just shot a federal agent?" Peter asked, and Neal was startled to hear his voice so close. The agent had moved towards Shaw and had his Glock leveled on David. "Why don't you just put the gun down, instead of making it worse for yourself."

"It can't beat being on the CIA's most wanted," David snorted derisively, flashing a look at Neal. "The FBI is nothing."

"So that was the Intersect?" Carson asked, drawing Neal's attention. The man was holding a blood-covered hand over his nose, and the bloody grin he gave Neal made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "I am impressed. Although, I must say, mine is quite a bit more advanced."

Neal stepped forward menacingly, and knelt down to meet Carson's eyes, the gun casually hanging from his hand. "That was all me. You're not the only one who was trained in martial arts. Problem for you is, I'm pretty sure I had the better instructor–"

He was cut off as Carson dove forward with a roar and tackled him around the middle, knocking them backwards towards the stairs. The gun slipped from his grip and clattered against the glass.

Instinctively, Neal tried to adjust his body position so they would go down parallel to the stairs instead of head over heels. In a tangle of limbs, they went rolling down the hard glass steps, every one as painful as the last. Hitting the bottom of the staircase with a cry, the breath was knocked out of him as Carson landed on top of him. Neal couldn't react in time when the man quickly grabbed his hair and slammed his head against the white tile.

Stars exploded across his line of sight, and his vision of Carson's crazed face dimmed. A sudden shout from above drew their attention, and the concussive blast of a gun discharging caused his ears to ring. Neal watched through slit eyes as David went tumbling down the steps towards them, almost in slow motion, a spray of red following. Absently, he realized that Peter or Shaw must have shot the man. Carson let out an inarticulate howl of rage, and tried to scramble off Neal to avoid the incoming body. However, Neal moved first, his limbs moving almost automatically.

He shoved the man off and twisted his own body away from the stairs in the opposite direction. With an unpleasant crunching sound, David's unmoving body smashed into the floor where Carson and Neal had been not seconds before.

Despite the encroaching headache and the double vision his sudden movements had caused, Neal sprung into a crouch and reached down to grasp the gun attached to his ankle. It released, and he aimed towards Carson. The problem was, he was having a hard time deciding which Carson to shoot at. There were two of them.

Shaking his head, he just picked one and squeezed off a shot. It must have been the wrong one, because the man was up and running towards the front entrance. Neal tried to stand and give chase, but his body did not agree with being upright, and his vision went dark. The last thing he heard before he collapsed was Peter's concerned call.

"Neal!"

* * *

It felt like he was in a dream. Everything was moving too fast. He was moving too fast. Skipping the last three stairs, he flew through the air before skidding on the slick floor and kneeling in front of Neal. Peter had not seen what Carson had done, but from the pale visage his consultant was sporting and the lack of movement, he assumed it wasn't good.

"Neal! Hey, buddy!" Carefully, he placed two fingers on the inside of the man's exposed neck, and let out a relieved sigh when he felt a pulse. It was a little slow, but steady enough that he wasn't too worried. He leaned over the man and gently slapped his cheek a few times in an attempt to rouse him. However, all that got him in return was a fluttering under the man's eyes. "Neal? C'mon Neal. Wake up."

"Burke!" A weak voice from up above called. "Is he alive?"

"He has a pulse, but he doesn't want to wake up," Peter said, unable to prevent his panic from coming out. "He isn't waking up!"

"Are his eyes moving?"

"What?" Peter asked, but then noticed as the fluttering became more pronounced. "Yes! He's seizing!"

"It isn't a seizure!" Kent said, his voice becoming sharper. "He's fine! I need you to leave him and help me. Right now–" There was a gasp of pain from the man. "Right now, I'm more injured."

He felt stuck. His friend was currently lying on the floor, essentially looking as if he was having a fit of some kind, and Kent wanted Peter to just leave him alone? Neal, his partner, who trusted him more than anyone else? And who the hell was Kent to say he's fine? Neal had fallen down a flight of stairs. He could be bleeding internally for all Peter knew. His hand hovered over Neal's face, his indecision apparent.

"Burke!"

Peter glanced up at Kent, who had somehow crawled closer to the edge of the landing and was gazing down at them. With one last concerned look at Neal, Peter rose and backed away towards the stairs. He didn't want to take his eyes off of the consultant, but he did.

Taking the stairs two at a time, when he made it to the top he knelt in front of the other agent and got a better look at the injury. It did seem quite bad. From what he could tell, it was thankfully a through-and-though, but was bleeding profusely. The entire left side of Kent's clothing looked damp, the red not clearly visible against the black suit. The only real indication it was blood was the small pool of red on the glass around the man's limp left hand, and his right was covered in it from where he was gripping the wound on his upper left arm.

"Give me your jacket," Kent rasped. "We need to try and control the bleeding. When I take my hand away, you have to apply pressure."

"Right," Peter said, quickly shimmying out of his jacket. He waited for Kent to move his hand, and then he pushed the fabric against the wound hard. The agent let out a hiss, and paled a little more. As Peter had never been shot before, it was difficult to imagine the amount of pain Kent was in.

"We need to move," Kent said, meeting Peter's wide eyes. "Do you think you can get me down the stairs? If I stood up right now, I'd probably end up down them."

"I can call an ambulance–" Peter said, awkwardly going for his phone in his pants pocket. A strong hand grasped his arm, preventing him from reaching it.

"No! No calls. No one can know about what just happened," Kent said, glancing down towards the bodies scattered across the welcome area.

"In case you didn't notice, you were shot. You need to get to the hospital," Peter insisted, putting more force against the wound to emphasize his point. Kent glared at him.

"I'm not in the mood to argue," Kent shot back. "Get me to the car, and I'll be fine. There's a med kit."

"Yeah, but I'm not trained in trauma."

"But Neal is. I don't have time to explain," Kent said, gritting his teeth in pain and flashing a look at something behind Peter. "He's awake anyways."

"What–" He didn't even hear the consultant's approach, but suddenly Neal was crouching right next to them, assessing Kent's injury with an expert eye.

"At least it wasn't me this time," Neal said jokingly. Kent actually laughed in response, and then immediately groaned when the movement jarred his injured arm. "He's right, though, we need to move. Carson's already gone, and he may have called for help. Here, Peter, let me do that."

The consultant reached over for the jacket, and Peter let him take it. He hadn't quite registered the man's presence yet, since this Neal most certainly wasn't the Neal he was used to. What had changed?

"Peter! Are you listening?" Neal asked, shooting him a fleeting look over his shoulder. "Grab the guns while I get Shaw out to the car."

"Who?" He was definitely confused now. Momentarily distracted when he realized the consultant had a gun of his own in one hand, Peter was having a hard time following the instructions.

"Secure the weapons," Neal said, helping the injured agent stand up. He gave Peter a hard look as he shifted the larger man so that his good arm was draped around his neck. "Are you okay to drive? I know you're probably not all there right now, but I need you to stay with me."

The FBI agent nodded absently, and said, "Yeah, fine. I'll drive."

A grim smile formed on Neal's face. "Good, then go collect the guns."

* * *

He wondered what would happen to his jacket. With the amount of blood saturated in the fabric it was probably beyond salvageable. That was a pity. It was El's favorite suit. At least it wasn't covered in his blood, though. El would have probably killed him if it had been. Unless he was already dead, in which case she would probably find some way to resurrect him if only to kill him herself.

His disturbing introspection was interrupted by Neal's soft voice.

"Head towards your house."

"What? Why?" Peter asked, looking at Neal in the rearview mirror. The man had the large medical kit spread out in the back seat, and he was attending to Kent as Peter watched. The hands that so delicately painted pictures seemed just as good at field dressing a gunshot wound.

"Carson," Neal jerked the gauze he was working with, and Kent groaned, "knows who you are. No doubt he knows where you live."

Peter pressed his foot down, hitting the break. Ignoring the pain from the seatbelt digging into his shoulder, he turned in his seat. "What's that supposed to mean? Is El in danger?"

Neal shot him a dirty look, presumably because the sudden stop. While easing Kent into a more comfortable position, as the man had released a quiet expletive when he hit the seat in front of him, Neal said, "We don't know. With these guys, it's better safe than sorry."

"These guys? What the hell was Carson into?" Reluctantly, he took his foot off the brake, and the car started moving again.

"You don't have a high enough security clearance for that information, Burke," Kent said, watching as Neal took out the materials needed to start an IV. Peter's eyes were glued to the consultant's actions also, but for entirely different reasons. When he processed what the other agent had said, he bristled.

"I was just held at gunpoint, and you can't tell me why?"

"Pretty much," Kent said, wincing when Neal inserted the small catheter into his right arm. The tourniquet was removed and an IV bag, containing what Peter assumed was saline, hung onto a hook on the ceiling. He should have guessed that those weren't for hanging dry cleaning.

"Listen, Peter. I promise I'll give you some answers, just not right now." Neal removed the bright blue sterile gloves and threw them onto the floor. He dug around in his jacket pocket, pulled out a phone, hit a number, and held it up to his ear. While he was waiting for it to connect, Peter could tell he was avoiding his gaze.

"General, we've got a problem. Carson's gone. It was a trap. He had an ambush waiting for us." The consultant hesitated and glanced out the window. "Shaw's shot, and our covers were blown. We're headed to the Studio now."

There was a long pause, and then Neal said shortly, "Two. David and Hutchinson… Understood, we'll debrief him too. Tell him thanks."

The sound of the phone being snapped shut echoed like a gunshot in the silent car. Kent looked at Neal questioningly and asked, "Well?"

"They'll be here in less than twelve hours."

* * *

Transportation Security Administration Agent Jim Johnson sighed loudly, and his companion shot him an annoyed glance when he noticed the lack of attention to their conversation. It was break time after a long morning full of pat downs, passport checks, and unpleasant businessmen. He could always tell when there was a conference (which, in all honesty, was pretty much every day in Houston) because the influx of similarly dressed people into George Bush Intercontinental. This weekend, it had been a large group who seemed to care more about checking their e-mail than checking themselves for metal. Taking a sip of his coffee, he was brought out of his thoughts when loud laughter reached his ears.

A woman and a man were walking hand-in-hand towards the line at the Starbucks counter. The woman had her head thrown back, and was laughing at something the man had said. Vaguely, he noticed his own companion had fallen silent. "Whew, lucky bastard."

Jim had to admit his friend was right. The woman was gorgeous. She looked like she had been plucked from a Sports Illustrated and put into a tight black dress that didn't leave all that much to the imagination. Her long beach-blonde hair flowed gracefully down her back, coming to a stop just below her shoulder blades, and her sharp pale features only accentuated her beauty. With long legs, partially covered with skin-tight black boots, she stood as tall as her male companion.

Like the good TSA agent Jim was, he scrutinized the man also. Thick, gelled back brown hair and a closely shaved beard, combined with the light tan, made the man quite handsome. He was dressed in a simple black suit with an open white button-down, and there was a hint of musculature beneath the clothing. They looked like any other couple out on a business trip.

However, it wasn't really their looks that attracted Jim's real attention. It was the air they possessed. Despite the visible lightness of the conversation, only one word came to his mind. Dangerous.

"Don't let Casey hear you say that!" she giggled and nudged the man with her shoulder. "He loves that car."

"I have no intention of telling him that to his face." The man's grin widened when she continued laughing. "But behind his back–" He was cut off by the ring of a cell phone.

Their expressions didn't change, but Jim caught both of them tense slightly. The man reached into a side pocket on his blazer and rummaged around before pulling out the loud phone. He didn't even check the number before he answered it, his voice carrying over to the two agents on break.

"Hey, Mom. What's up?" They took a step forward as the line moved. The man listened to the voice on the other end, and his smile suddenly dropped. "He's where?"

The woman tugged on his sleeve in concern and said, "What's wrong?" Instead of receiving a response he gently brushed her away and stepped out of the line, leaving her alone. She didn't stay; instead, she followed him out of the line. They moved closer to Jim, so he didn't feel like a horrible eavesdropper.

"Okay, okay. Um, I'll have to switch the flight then. I'll- I'll call you back when I get the flight time. Okay, Mom. Yeah, I love you too." The woman reached out and put a hand on the man's arm, as if she sensed something was wrong. "Bye," he continued, snapping the phone shut and staring at it for a moment.

"Chuck," the woman said softly, but, getting no response, tried again. "Hey, Chuck. What did she want?"

"Dad was in an accident," the man said, looking up at her. "We need to get to New York."

_Poor bastard._


	13. Panorama

**AN:** And here is the next chapter of Cascade Effects! I was going to post it yesterday, considering White Collar season two ended, but wasn't quite done with it. By the way, how awesome was that finale! I could go on, but I won't in case some haven't see it yet haha. Great episode though, and nice to see some things resolved. As always, thank you for the reviews! You guys really make my day. And if you haven't, definitely check out some of the new stories in the White Collar/Chuck category! I love seeing the section expanding more and more. I'm quite a fan of WC/Chuck crossovers too ;D Big thanks to AwesomeQueenoftheLab, for going over this chapter (and listening to my crazy potential plot points haha).

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Chuck or White Collar. If I did then this story would obviously happen, and Bryce Larkin would be alive (and Matt Bomer would be on my tv a lot more) :D

**Note: **Set after White Collar episode 1x10 "Vital Signs", and **five years after** Chuck episode 3x05 "Chuck Versus the First Class".

* * *

Chapter Twelve - Panorama

* * *

Colonel John Casey hated silence. He was a man of action, not a man that liked to sit inside Castle by himself while everyone else was on a mission. Though, technically, Chuck and Sarah were returning that afternoon, so their mission was complete. Not that it went well. It had been a complete bust, actually.

While they had found one of Roark's old tech geeks in the personnel files, they never did find the missing scientist. He had a feeling the man was no longer living, but they wouldn't really ever know. The worst part was they never did find David. Casey wasn't one to leave a job unfinished, and this one in particular left a bad taste in his mouth. That could have also been because Shaw had suddenly and conveniently been given a mission, and he hadn't. Being stuck inside made him twitchy, and when he got twitchy, he tended to shoot something. Usually, it was more of a someone.

He was currently packing away some communication equipment, since it was no longer needed, when the sound of a sharp female voice over his shoulder caused him to pause. Glancing at the large bank of monitors, he tried to restrain a pleased smirk when he saw his superior's face.

"Colonel," the stern looking redhead said in greeting.

"General," he said shortly, nodding politely. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, he noticed, but it was quickly replaced with a concerned frown.

"I'll skip the pleasantries. I'm reassigning the team to New York." Casey opened his mouth to ask why, but she held up a hand impatiently. "Agent Shaw ran into a problem during his recent mission."

"Problem?" he snorted derisively, and ignored her warning look. While he had come to respect the CIA agent, he still did not enjoy having a kid as his team's leader. There was something to be said about experience.

"Special Agent Shaw was shot," she said bluntly, her face surprisingly stoic as she watched his eyes widen. "The situation was worse than we believed it to be."

"Obviously," Casey said, but was unable to help a touch of concern from entering his voice. He shuddered at the unwelcome feeling. "He alive?"

"He is. I'll be briefed further on his condition in a while, but until then, I don't know the extent of his injury." She seemed hesitant to say much else, which struck him as odd. "He was working with another agent, and that's all I am at liberty to say. You will join Agents Walker and Bartowski at a CIA substation, and take over the operation from there."

"Understood." His curiosity had been spiked when she mentioned another agent, and he had a feeling it was another CIA operative. Just what he needed–someone to shoot. "That it?"

"Have a safe flight, Colonel," she said gruffly, and killed the video feed. He grunted, slightly amused at the abrupt dismissal. However, his thoughts turned more serious, and he frowned when he turned back to the communication equipment.

The day before Shaw left for New York, Casey remembered stumbling upon the man as he came out of the conference area. There had been a dazed look on the agent's face that hadn't sat right with him. When asked about it, the agent blew him off and muttered something about a mission. At first, Casey had been more than a bit pissed off to be dismissed, but then he realized the news must have been truly shocking for Shaw's mask to slip.

Just what the hell was Beckman sending them into?

* * *

Clinton Jones knew something was up. For one thing, Fowler–who was currently using Neal's desk as his own–kept glancing at him every once in a while with a smug smirk on his face. It was beginning to make him uncomfortable. Another thing, Peter was supposed to have called him half an hour ago. There was, of course, the possibility that the meeting with Aaron Carson had just taken longer than planned, but he was sure that the agent would have called to tell him that. He spun his chair back and forth, and stared at the black phone on his desk. He'd given up trying to do paperwork fifteen minutes ago.

"Something on your mind, Agent Jones?" Fowler's voice cut across the space separating them like a knife. He met the OPR agent's cool gaze, and shook his head slowly.

"No," he said shortly.

"I can tell," the man said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Jones wanted to hit him.

"Why are you here?" he blurted out, and his eyes widened when he realized what he had said. Fowler let out a barking laugh, and casually put his feet up on Neal's desk. The move caused an unexpected flare of anger to jolt through him.

"Straight to the point." Jones shot him an annoyed look, and was stunned to see the man actually hesitate. "Despite what you may think, I'm not after your consultant."

Jones scoffed, and said bluntly, "You'll have to forgive me if I don't believe that then, Agent Fowler. Last time you were here, you were convicting Neal, not asking for his help. He was arrested for a theft he didn't commit. Your track record isn't the greatest."

Fowler looked surprisingly thoughtful as he listened to Jones, and there was an extended pause–almost like he was weighing his words carefully–before he slowly spoke.

"Agent Burke is your superior, correct?" Jones nodded. "If he told you to arrest a suspect, and all evidence pointed towards that suspect being guilty, would you do it?" Fowler's gaze was intense, but it didn't make him uneasy this time.

"I would," Jones said, and he was starting to get a feel of where this conversation was going.

"All evidence pointed towards Caffrey stealing that diamond. The Department felt that it was best to arrest him." The man shrugged and looked unapologetic. "Caffrey was a criminal with a reputation. If it had gotten out to the press that it was an FBI consultant stealing a precious gem, the backlash would have been devastating to the Bureau. Why should the public trust us to stop the criminals if we can't stop one that's right under our noses? Just because I may think someone is innocent, doesn't mean I won't do what I'm under orders to do. It's not my place to judge whether a suspect is innocent or guilty, but it is my place to look at the evidence and make an educated decision."

"But Neal didn't steal it," Jones said weakly. He hadn't been prepared for this kind of confession from the OPR agent. It made him feel uneasy, and he didn't like it.

"He didn't. But even you, Agent Jones, can understand the evidence was stacked against him." Fowler looked slightly sympathetic, the expression seeming odd on his face. "Thankfully, Agent Burke found the real thief. We don't enjoy locking up people who don't deserve it, even if it may appear otherwise." The man's phone went off and he glanced at it, then held up a finger indicating he needed a moment but the conversation wasn't necessarily over. "I need to take this. Special Agent Fowler."

Jones nodded absently, thoughts a mile away. Everything the OPR agent said actually made some sense. He knew he would have arrested Neal if Peter had told him to, simply because the man was his superior agent. He may have done it reluctantly, but nevertheless still snapped the steel cuffs on. Sometimes he forgot that Neal was not another agent. The consultant seemed almost too comfortable surrounded by the feds that helped put him in jail. It was hard to tell with him, though–the man was a great actor. He was sure that if Neal had been an FBI agent, undercover work would have been his specialty.

"He was what?" Fowler hissed, the noise drawing Jones's attention, along with a few other agents'. The man realized he was the object of unwanted eyes, so he glared at them and they all quickly went back to work. All of them except for Jones, who watched the agent cast a fleeting glance towards Hughes' office. "Fine. I'll be there in half an hour. How many?" A small wince crossed the man's face, and Jones wondered what could be so bad. From the clipped tone, whatever was going on wasn't good. "Understood. Next time, though, he's cleaning up his own messes."

The man sounded mad, and he snapped the phone shut, looking like he wanted to chuck it at some one. Why the anger, Jones did not know. He did know that he was glad he wouldn't be on the receiving end.

* * *

Elizabeth Burke let out a huge sigh of relief as she finally put away the last decoration catalog and stood up, brushing her hands off on her black sweatpants. While she did love a pretty dress and heels, she cherished the time when she could dress down for a while. She padded into the kitchen and slipped on her running shoes, calling out to the dog in the process.

"Satch! C'mon boy. Mommy needs to gets some air." The distinctive click of excited doggy paws against the hardwood floor caused Elizabeth to smile.

She grabbed a leash hanging from a hook in the kitchen and walked into the dining area, where their large Labrador sat by the back door, his tail happily thwacking against the ground. When he saw her with the lead, he barked and trotted towards her. After running her hand through his thick fur, not forgetting to give him an affectionate scratch behind his big ears, she clipped the leash on him and opened the back door. Satchmo was out like a shot, down the steps before she even got the door shut. He reminded her strangely of Neal, never able to stay confined for long. Both were quite flirty, too, if she could compare Satch's hilarious courting of their neighbor's dog, Maya, to Neal's "dancing."

Letting the leash go–their yard was fenced in so he couldn't escape from her–she pulled her hair back with a hair tie and began some simple stretches on the porch. The hum of New York traffic combined with the stretching slowly began to relax her, tension starting to release from her shoulders and neck.

Her earlier consultation had gone well, but that didn't mean it had been easy. Trying to please both a bride and her mother was always a difficult task. Add a mother-in-law into the mix, and she had been quite ready to rip her hair out. Hopefully a quick run would help her clear her mind before she headed to her office.

Finished stretching, she jogged over to the door in the fence and whistled. Satchmo looked towards her from where he was investigating a potted plant, and she beckoned him to her. For a moment, he seemed torn between the plant and her, and she snorted in amusement.

"Satch! Come on. Leave the poor plant alone." He cast one more suspicious doggy look at the plant, before trotting towards her. "That 'a boy," she said, bending down to grab the leash and giving him another scratch behind the ears. He leaned in to her touch, his brown eyes big and adorable and his tongue lolling out from the side of his mouth in happiness. "Maybe more like Peter…" she trailed off in contemplation, walking out of the yard and shutting the fence door behind her.

She never noticed the large black car that turned the corner half a block back and began to slow down as it drew nearer.

* * *

Chuck Bartowski was worried. Getting the news that a teammate, and good friend, had been shot was never something he enjoyed. He had unfortunately experienced it one too many times. His hands tightened on the armrests, and he could feel Sarah's concerned gaze on his face. She reached out, grabbing his right hand in her left and squeezing in reassurance. The ring on her finger cut into his hand painfully, but he didn't mind. Quietly, she placed her head on his shoulder, and he automatically put his cheek on the top of her blonde head.

"He'll be fine, Chuck," she whispered, "He's survived worse."

That part was true. Bio-agents, bombings, and torture were probably ten times as worse, and Shaw had survived. They all had. They were a closer team because of it, and he honestly wouldn't have it any other way.

"He never mentioned he was going on a solo mission." Those types of missions were always a sore spot, considering they were a team. "In New York, no less. The man knows how much we love New York," he said, indignant. His ran him thumb over the large diamond inlaid in her ring, a small smile touching his lips as he remembered their first trip to the city together. Proposing to the love of his life while dangling thirty stories up in a New York skyscraper had been strangely fitting, considering. At least, according to Shaw it had been. He frowned when his thoughts turned back to the agent.

"Yes, well, I don't think he withheld it on purpose," she said, meeting his concerned brown eyes, then glancing back to their joined hands. "We aren't supposed to know everything for a reason. You know that."

"It doesn't make it any easier," Chuck hissed, but backed down when Sarah glared at him. "Sorry, I shouldn't take this out on you."

"You're right, you shouldn't," she said simply, turning away from him to look out the window of the plane. The grip on his hand increased in pressure, and he winced. "You're not the only one worried. But we can't do much until we learn more. Who's picking us up at the airport?"

"Some agent called 'Fowler'," Chuck said, scowling as he fiddled with his phone. "His file was in the Intersect. He's formerly NSA, now an Internal Affairs investigator for the FBI, and that's all I could get."

"He's not with the Agency?" Sarah asked. It wasn't uncommon for them to work with government agencies, but they certainly preferred to work without the other being aware. Also, considering the Ring was a rogue intelligence agency with members from all of the alphabet agencies, they could never be too careful.

"Did I forget to mention that he's a liaison between the NSA and CIA?" he said with false brightness, meeting her eyes. She shot him a mild warning look, but was unable to stop the smile that tugged on the corners of her lips. His smile turned more genuine, and not for the first time, he realized how much he truly loved her. Not many women could put up with him.

"You did, but I think I have it in me to forgive you," she said airily, but then turned more serious. "Is he Ring?"

"That would be a resounding 'no'," he said, unlocking his phone to check for new texts. They were still waiting for Casey to confirm he was on his way. "He works directly under Beckman. I just don't know why he's currently with the FBI."

"Perhaps he's undercover," Sarah suggested. "I mean, tactically it would make sense. The CIA and NSA aren't the only American agencies that deal with intelligence."

"You think he's passing her information about potential Ring agents?" he asked curiously. It did make sense when he thought about it.

"He would be in the perfect position to," she reasoned. "Internal Affairs investigators are able to look into agents' backgrounds without undue suspicion."

"Speaking from experience, right?" he teased, and then yelped as she struck his arm with her hand. He knew he deserved it though.

A few years back, she had had a bad experience with a CIA Internal Affairs guy. He was no longer among the living. If it was one thing he knew Sarah hated, it was someone telling her how she should do her job. It was even worse when that same guy tried to bring her into the Ring, but it had helped them realize why Beckman had assigned the man to their team–to flush him out. Still, the man had dredged up some things that Sarah had not taken kindly to being dredged up. In some ways he was glad that her past had been exposed a little more, since it had lead to a better understanding between the two, but it had been a difficult time for everyone involved.

"You know what they say about experience," she purred, letting go of his hand only to place hers on his knee. He swallowed uncomfortably, watching as it slowly began to creep up. It was one of the CIA's private jets, so it was just them in the small, empty aircraft.

"Are you trying to distract me, Mrs. Carmichael?" he said, and he felt her breath tickle his neck as she laughed. They really shouldn't be doing what they would soon be doing (making out heatedly in the back of the jet), considering they were heading to New York because one of their teammates was shot while on a mysterious mission. However, everyone dealt with stress, and frustration, differently. At least she wasn't shooting him.

"Is it working, Mr. Carmichael?"

"I'm gonna have to go with 'yes'."

* * *

Aaron Carson was mad. No, actually, it was more like extremely pissed. That CIA bastard Larkin had broken his nose, killed two of his best men, and was still breathing. If he had it his way, the 'still breathing' issue would soon be resolved, preferably with a bullet. But at this point, anything would do. His employer would not be happy with him when he heard of this. Yet, there was a bright side to everything. He had blown Larkin's cover wide open. It had been an unexpected, but most certainly not unwelcome, bonus.

Still, he was putting off the call he would need to make. Right now it was a little difficult anyway, considering he had one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding a piece of his shirt to his bleeding nose. All he was doing was delaying the inevitable, though, so he scanned the street for empty parking spots. There was one up ahead, and he sped up a little before someone else could take it. Carefully, he maneuvered the black SUV into the spot, which took him longer than it usually did. The broken nose probably had something to do with it.

Putting the car in park, he shut off the engine and sat there. After a moment, he glanced at the front passenger seat, where a slim black phone lay in the tan leather seat. He took a steadying breath and reached a shaking hand for it. Clumsily, he flipped it open with his thumb and stared at the glowing numbers. Number one in particular seemed to mock him. With a sigh, he leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes for a second. He had to do it.

Carson grimaced as he looked at the phone again, and before he could change his mind, pressed the number one. It beeped, and he put it to his ear. The sound of the call connecting grated on his ears, but the person on the other end quickly picked up.

"Carson. Do you have Larkin?" The man was always direct and to the point, sometimes annoyingly so.

"About that," he replied, nervously glancing out the car's window. His voice was slightly muffled from the cloth he was holding to his face, and every movement of his mouth was painful. "We had him–"

"Had? I don't like past tenses, Aaron." He knew he was in deep shit when the other man called him by his first name. "I needed _you_ to bring Larkin to _us_. What did you do instead? Invite him to tea and then send him on his merry way?"

"We had him," Carson said between gritted teeth, "but he disarmed me and killed David and Hutchinson. David got a shot in, just not on Larkin."

"Why am I not all that surprised?" the man said, and even through the phone Carson could see him shaking his head in disgust. His tone was sardonic as he went on, "Were you able to confirm that the FBI is even working with the Agency?"

"They are not," he said quickly. "The agent, Burke, was clueless until Larkin fought back. The man had no idea that he was working with a trained CIA agent."

There was an extended pause at the other end of the line, and Carson took the time to scan the area again. Finally, the man spoke.

"Were you at least able to smuggle Axis out?" There was a silent warning in the man's voice, but Carson nodded, then realized the man couldn't see his response.

"I did. I–I was able to put all the information onto one painting. The holographic metal worked like David said it would, and the CIA is still none the wiser. But I did find out something you may find… interesting."

"And that is? I don't have all day, you understand. Things to do, people to kill." Carson wasn't entirely sure the man was joking, and a shiver raced down his spine.

"Larkin had trouble with the paintings," he blurted out. "He's an Intersect."

"Carson, if every person who had trouble looking at one of your damn paintings was an Intersect, I would be one. Thousands of people would be one."

"No. No, this is different. Larkin is different. He got a headache because he glanced at the painting; he couldn't look at it for more than a second." Now was the hard part; the part he didn't want to admit. "Before he fought back, I think he flashed. He had such trouble with the painting because his Intersect was trying to show him what was below the pictures–the holographic metal they're printed on."

"If what you just said is true," the man said seriously, not sounding as if it was a big revelation, "and Larkin is an Intersect, which is troubling to think about, you understand that we'll need to accelerate the Axis project. Find that music box and finish Intersect X, or I'll bring in someone who can. Understood?"

The last words held an ominous tone to them, and Carson's heart jumped a little in his chest. He knew what would happen if he failed, and it would not be pleasant.

"Understood," he said, gulping. There was a click, signaling the end of the conversation. Looking at the phone in dismay, he tried to take a deep breath to calm himself, but instead he felt a sudden burst of anger and threw the phone in the passenger seat.

Breathing heavily through his mouth, as his nose was a little damaged at that point in time, he seethed, "I hate Bryce Larkin."


	14. Paradigm Shift

**AN:** So, I have a fairly good excuse for the delay. :D I was out for two weeks with whooping cough, and the medication they gave me was quite strong. It was horrible, that's all I'm going to say. So I was behind in everything, and am only just getting caught up with my writing. Thus, I give you (finally), the next chapter. Hope it doesn't disappoint. Big thanks to AwesomeQueenoftheLab for her beta work on this chapter, and for all the reviews, alerts, and favorites. And a huge thanks to whoever nominated "Vital Lies" for the White Collar Fanfiction Awards! I was really touched when I saw that it was in the running. You guys are totally awesome. :D

* * *

Chapter Thirteen - Paradigm Shift

* * *

Neal glanced at Shaw in concern and continued to apply pressure to the man's wound. The bleeding had slowed down to a much more manageable level, but there was a pinched look to the man's face, and he was still white as a sheet. The saline appeared to be helping; however, until they made it back to the Studio–where he could replace the blood Shaw lost–there wasn't much he could do. He had been worried at first that the bullet may have nicked a larger blood vessel, but after checking the site he hadn't seen anything to indicate that. Thankfully, because while he could have dealt with Shaw bleeding out, it would have been extremely difficult. As it was, he had a long day ahead of him.

"Did it do what I thought it would?" Shaw's soft voice sounded loud in the small car. Neal knew what he was asking about–the Intersect–and he nodded.

"I think so," he replied, just as quietly. "It rebooted like it was designed to do, and it's there. Still, I'm pretty sure I have a concussion."

"Yeah, I hear that happens when your head meets solid ground at a great speed." The agent was gritting his teeth in pain when Neal shifted his position and jostled his arm accidentally. "What are you going to do?"

If that wasn't a question open to many interpretations, then he'd eat his hat. Which reminded him: it was missing.

"About what?" he asked, avoiding Shaw's gaze and fiddling with the gauze he was working with.

"You know very well 'what'. How are you going to handle seeing them–"

"I'll handle it just fine," he hissed as he cut the man off. Ignoring Peter's startled look from the front seat at the violent tone, he continued more quietly, but just as intense. "It's been five years. They've moved on."

"Bullshit," Shaw said, and Neal flinched. "If you think those two aren't going to remember, then you're sorely mistaken. You're also an idiot, but I think we established that already."

He remained silent, his jaw clenched tight. He wasn't quite sure how to respond. In all honesty, he was absolutely dreading seeing Chuck and Sarah again. Not only would it no doubt dredge up some feelings that he had long since buried, but seeing the betrayal on their faces would hurt. Deeply. His death, and subsequent incarceration, had affected him more than he had ever admitted. A spy's life was often lonely, but those three years in prison had been the worst of his life.

He had had plenty of time to reflect, though, and he had taken advantage of it, looking back all the way to Stanford. Chuck had been his best friend, and Neal certainly didn't regret getting him expelled. While in the long run it had not really helped much, as Chuck had still become involved with the CIA, he hadn't become corrupted by them like Neal had–at least, not then. Now was a different story, and he was actually terrified to see his old friend. Would he hate Neal for lying and faking his death? Probably, but there had been a good reason behind everything, and he hoped Chuck would see that. He always remembered his friend as being rather levelheaded, but if it involved something the man cared about, that was a different story.

"Do you think he'll hate me?" he blurted out, and was unable to stop the horrified expression from crossing his face. Shaw's pain-filled eyes met his, and he gave Neal a searching look.

"I think he'll be pissed off that he was left in the dark. Five years is a long time, but death is an eternity," Shaw said, shooting Peter a look. The FBI agent had been listening to their conversation, but still seemed both confused and in shock, so not much was registering. Neal knew it wouldn't last forever, and frowned as he saw Peter avoid their eyes.

Suddenly, the sound of Lady Gaga's _Bad Romance_ echoed in the car and startled Neal. Glancing at the phone in his hand and seeing Fowler's number, he shot Shaw a look of exasperation. The man just shot him a tired smirk in return, and Neal rolled his eyes.

"Strangely, it fits," he muttered, and hesitated. At this point, he didn't feel much like being yelled at, but the man would just keep calling. With a sigh, he picked it up. "Yes?"

"_I hate you, Larkin. Next time, you're cleaning up your own messes. Maid wasn't in the damn job description."_

"And to think I will miss seeing you in that French maid outfit." Shaw snorted next to him, his eyes dancing with laughter at Neal's joking. "I'm so disappointed."

"_Laugh it up, Larkin. But remember, I'm sure Burke would enjoy those pictures of you and Shaw on that mission in Par–"_

"Are you there yet?" Neal cut him off, unable to let him continue for both his and Shaw's sakes. He thought they burned those pictures. Damn.

Fowler was chuckling on the other end as he answered, letting the subject of incriminating pictures drop, _"I will be in a few minutes. Beckman didn't say much other than I've got two dead bodies to deal with. And I need to deal with the Bureau. Jones was worried that Burke didn't call in."_

"I expected nothing less," Neal said, worrying his lip between his teeth for a moment as he debated whether he should have Peter call. "We're headed to the Studio. You did clear him, right?"

"_Jones? Yeah, his clearance went through fine. Would you like me to bring him down after I get through over here?"_

"I think that may be best. I'd rather explain it once." He met Peter's eyes in the rearview mirror again, and held the gaze for a moment.

There was a pause on the other end before Fowler said, _"Fine. Cruz's clearance is still being processed, so I won't bring her. Hughes has one already, but Beckman was going to have someone else brief him about Carson. Not you."_

"Yeah, okay. Whatever she wants." Truthfully, he was relieved. Reese Hughes was not someone he wanted to bring in, despite the fact that the man was completely trustworthy. It was just too dangerous for anyone outside of his group to know. It was too dangerous for Peter and Jones to know, but it had to be done now.

"_Shaw?"_

"He's fine," Neal said, glancing at the agent next to him who had his eyes squeezed shut. "He's had worse. I'm just mad that we can't call him Superman anymore. As much as we would like to think he's bulletproof…"

"_Good,"_ Fowler replied, and Neal had to hold back a smile when he caught the relieved tone._ "I'm picking up Agents Bartowski and Walker in a while, so we can have this damn talk already. I can't wait till I'm reassigned and I never have to see your face again."_

"I think I'll take that as a compliment."

* * *

The conversation made absolutely no sense at all to Peter. It seemed to be a running trend as of the past hour or so. Nothing made sense anymore. Things had changed. Something had shifted. His world had been tilted. It happened the moment Neal shot Hutchinson in front of him. Well, behind him, really, as he had been held hostage.

Flashes of the moment kept trying to creep up on him. The name Bryce Larkin, Carson's self-satisfied look, Neal's cool voice and cold eyes, the flash of a gun, blood. It completely contradicted everything he knew, or thought he knew, about the conman. Neal wasn't supposed to be a killer, let alone a good one. Peter still wasn't sure how he had pulled that shot off. Seeing him hold Carson at gunpoint had also been jarring. It was like he had done it before; he was so collected and _familiar_ with the weapon. As an FBI agent, it scared him, but as Neal's supposed friend, it terrified him. Neal was not Neal anymore.

"What's your name?" he asked quietly, keeping his eyes glued to the road and his hands on the wheel of the car. There was some shifting in the backseat, but he didn't glance at the two.

"Special Agent Daniel Shaw, CIA. I'd show you my pretty ID, but I don't have it on me at the moment."

"Not you."

"Peter, I don't want to do this–" Neal started, but he viciously cut him off.

"I don't really give a damn what you want or don't want." He gripped the steering wheel tighter, and resisted the urge to jerk it when a turn came up. Instead he turned the car smoothly, semi-mindful of the injured agent in the back seat. "Who are you?"

There was a moment of tense silence, and he risked a quick look in the rearview mirror. Neal's eyes were squeezed shut as if he was in pain, and when he opened them, Peter hastily glanced away again.

"My name, my real name at least," he could hear him take a deep breath, "is Bryce Larkin."

"Why do I call you Neal Caffrey?"

"I wasn't picturing this conversation taking place in a car," Neal, or Bryce now, apparently, muttered. "It's an alias."

"An alias," Peter said flatly. Absently, he realized one more turn and they would be on his street. "Neal Caffrey isn't real?"

"I never said that," Bryce Larkin said defensively. "Neal Caffrey is perfectly 'real'."

"Right," Peter said, nodding his head. "And so is Puff the Magic Dragon."

"Peter–"

"No, Neal. Or Bryce. Whatever the hell your name is." He shook his head in frustration. "You lied to me."

"I lied to a lot of people," Neal said softly, a trace of some sadness in his voice. "It's my job to lie, Peter."

"You're not a con artist, are you?" Peter inquired.

A dark chuckle came from the back seat, and it caused Peter to shiver. It sounded cold, calculating almost. "I never said I wasn't. If you want to classify me as one, feel free. It undeniably _fits_."

The other agent, Shaw, let out a bark of laughter, followed by a groan of pain. Peter didn't glance back, as much as he wanted to. He wasn't sure he could stand to look at Neal–no, Bryce–right now. Not only was he confused, but it was just starting to set in that he didn't know his partner anymore.

"Back there," Peter started slowly, "Carson called you Agent Larkin. That wasn't a mistake, was it?"

"No," Nea- Bryce said quietly, looking out the tinted window at the New York landscape as it passed by. "It wasn't."

"Who are you?"

The man let out a short laugh, and said, "My full title is Special Agent Bryce Larkin. I haven't used the name in five years, though. Legally, my name is really Neal Caffrey, as you undoubtedly know. Those FBI background checks are quite thorough."

"Not enough," Shaw muttered, and Peter caught him rolling his eyes.

"Special Agent for who?"

"I would have thought you guessed by now," Neal said, and Peter shook his head.

"I have an idea, but I need to hear it from you," he said, sounding oddly desperate. There was an uncomfortable silence in the car as Peter waited for what he already knew.

"The CIA. I work for the CIA."

It was hard to believe that three letters could effectively shatter conceived notions, and bring the world to a stand still. But for Peter Burke, it had happened, and there was no going back.

* * *

"I don't understand, Peter!" Elizabeth hissed, eyeing Neal and Shaw with disbelief. They made for an interesting sight, the larger man draped over the smaller one as they walked behind them down an alley. Apparently, blood loss makes you woozy. "Why am I here? And why isn't he in a hospital? He's shot!"

Peter shook his head and stopped before he pulled El closer to him. Gently taking her face in his hands, he met her scared blue eyes and tried to convey something helpful, but failed. "I don't know, hun. I'm about as clueless as you are. Neal says he'll answer our questions after he gets the other agent fixed up. I just need you to stay calm. Can you do that?"

It wasn't a great question, as he was pretty much still freaking out over some of the revelations in the car, so his voice held a small tremor that he was unable to conceal. He was coming off of an adrenaline rush, too, which may have contributed to his shakiness. Her eyes widened when she caught it, though, and shot over to the two over Peter's shoulder.

"Did Neal do something bad?" she asked, whispering. Peter had to close his eyes for a moment. He wasn't sure how to answer that.

"I don't know," he muttered, opening his eyes and glancing back at the two men. They had stopped in front of a dingy-looking door, and he was startled to see it open automatically. Neal called out to them and, without looking back, disappeared through the door.

Peter reluctantly moved away from El and took her hand before leading them towards the open door. She went quiet at his tone, silently tightening her grip on his hand. The other hand held Satchmo's leash, the dog surprisingly docile at his master's side. It was as if he knew now was not the time to be sniffing the overflowing trash cans littering the alley.

They came up to the open door and walked in. It was much nicer in the hallway than it had been in the alley. Gleaming white tile floor and whitewashed walls gave the small space a clean look. The door behind them made a clicking sound as it shut them in, and there was a feeling of finality.

Satchmo's paws clacked against the floor as El followed Peter. At the end of the hallway, there was a single steel door, protected by what looked like a high tech security palm scanner. Shaw was leaning against the wall nearby, his eyes shut tight in pain from his wound, while Neal fiddled with the scanner. The injured agent was much paler than he had been a few minutes ago, Peter noticed, and the sound of heavy breathing filled the small area. He felt a pang of sympathy for the agent, and could practically feel El's motherly instincts firing up.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked, staring at the man's bloodied shirt in horror. A brown eye wearily cracked open, meeting her gaze with indifference, before closing again.

"I'll be fine," he said, his voice raspy. "I'm in capable hands."

"Who?" she trailed off, her attention caught by Satchmo when he suddenly whined and shuffled towards the man.

Peter watched as the dog nudged the man's free hand where it was hanging limply by his side. This time both brown eyes flew open, and the man looked at the dog in astonishment. Satchmo was incessant, butting his head at the man's leg repeatedly so he could be petted. The man hesitated, but then shaky fingers reached out and stroked the top of the dog's soft fur. It was hard for Peter to restrain a small smile at the dog's antics. Being a certified therapy dog, Satch had apparently picked up on the man's distress and wanted to fix it.

Neal had finally gotten the door open and turned back to them, answering El's question. "I'm trained in trauma. This place has a whole medical wing with everything we could possibly need."

"Where are we?" Peter asked, watching as Neal let the man lean on him again. El pulled Satchmo back when they moved away, heading to the open door. He hesitated for a moment, shooting a look at the closed steel door leading back out, then took a deep breath and went forward. When he caught a glimpse of the palm scanner, his heart beat a little faster. In bright green letters for all to see, it said, _BRYCE LARKIN (CIA), IDENTITY CONFIRMED. _El must have noticed it too, because he heard her let out a little gasp and her grip turned to a crushing one.

"The Studio," Neal answered shortly, his attention focused on helping Shaw make it down the metal steps. "It's a CIA substation. Just please, don't touch anything."

Peter was barely capable of speech, let alone moving from his place at the top of the metal staircase. The room below them was like nothing he had ever seen before. Massive amounts of technology flashed and blinked brightly. A large bank of flat-screen monitors dominated the room, with a screensaver showing the seals of various agencies. He recognized the FBI's, but also caught the CIA's and some other agency he didn't recognize. An odd glowing table was positioned strategically in front of the screens, and Peter wished that the FBI could afford technology like this. It would no doubt make their jobs much easier.

Large strip lights were stuck to the concrete walls along the staircase, and soft blue light filtered into the small underground cavern. He could make out glass screens separating the main room from other areas, but could not make out any other features of the rooms, as the glass was frosted. The whole area felt like something out of a spy movie or Batman, if he could call it a bat cave. It made him surprisingly uncomfortable and off balance. Sure, he worked for a law enforcement agency that dealt with intelligence, but he had never been exposed to an operation like this. He'd never worked with the CIA. At least, not that he had _known_ of.

"I need to take him to the medical wing," Neal called from below, and drew Peter's gaze. There was a pained look on the man's face that was out of place. He attributed some of it from the fact that Agent Shaw was currently draped over him, but he had the feeling that it was something more than that. "You can either come with me, or I can put you into one of the detention cells. It's protocol."

"Detention cells?" El asked, scrunching up her nose. She made it sound like a dirty word.

"Fine," Peter said, grabbing his wife's hand again and leading her down the steps with Satchmo trailing. He was not going to sit in some cell, being held hostage by, well, he wasn't quite sure what to call Neal, or Bryce, rather. "Show us to the medical wing."

* * *

"The x-rays indicated no broken bones or bullet fragments lodged in your arm. I cleaned the area already, so now I just have to stitch it up." Neal turned away from the large computer monitor where Shaw's x-rays were displayed. He pushed his glasses–black framed specs that he didn't use too often–back into place and walked over to Shaw where he was lying on an examination table. For the moment, he was ignoring the stares he could feel coming from Peter and Elizabeth as they watched him work. "I want to put you in a sling so you don't pull it too much, though we need to do some exercises everyday to get full function back. The bullet took out a pretty good chunk of your flesh."

That was true. While it had not been as bad as Neal had originally feared, it had been quite the graze. Like a knife through butter, the bullet had sliced into the man's left arm, cutting into muscle and leaving a long gash that had bled profusely. Painful, yes; life threatening, no.

He checked the IV and made sure that the blood was still flowing from the bag properly, then sat in a rolling chair on Shaw's left side. There was a small metal table nearby that had a set of latex gloves and a suture kit all ready for him.

"That's it?" Shaw asked quietly, watching as Neal snapped on the gloves and reached for a syringe and vial. Deftly, he exposed the needle and stuck it into the vial, drawing out some of the clear liquid.

"I can't exactly tell if there's been nerve or soft tissue damage," Neal said, hesitating slightly. He met Shaw's eyes as he drew the needle from the vial and looked away, rolling forward in the chair so that he could work on the arm. Prodding the area he was going to numb, he started to inject the Lidocaine, not even warning the man of the pinch. It was certainly not as bad as the gunshot wound. "I would put you through the MRI, but that takes time we don't have right now."

"What about when the rest of the team arrives?"

"We'll see. If I decide it's needed that bad, Chuck can always run it on you. He doesn't have to go to work." He jerked his head towards Peter and El, who he knew had been following the conversation.

"Chuck?" Peter sounded a little confused, but Neal knew he had made the connection.

"Charles Carmichael. I think Jones gave you his file this morning," he replied casually. Finished with the anesthetic, he placed it back on the tray with a clang and picked up the suture thread.

"Yeah, he's part of your team," Peter said. Neal caught the agent pointing at Shaw out of the corner of his eye. The CIA agent grinned in response, and Neal shot him a warning look that was promptly ignored. "He's not FBI either, is he?"

"Agents Charles Bartowski and his wife–" Neal almost pricked himself with the needle he had been trying to thread, and he stared wide-eyed at Shaw. "Sarah Walker-Bartowski are CIA officers under my authority."

"Chuck and Sarah," El breathed out, wide-eyed. Neal clenched his fists together, the latex sticking slightly, and glanced at the two.

Her right hand was clasped tightly in Peter's grip, and she had brought her left hand up to her mouth. There was something in her blue eyes that made him really uncomfortable–pity. Peter's gaze was more angry than anything, and he directed his next question at Neal when they locked eyes.

"You know them." It was a statement, not a question.

"I–" Neal stuttered, still in shock over Shaw's comment. "I… yes, I do."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Peter sounded like an odd combination of broken, confused, and angry. Neal shook his head and turned away, unable to stand the intense stare from the FBI agent. The room was quiet.

He finally threaded the needle for the sutures and bent over Shaw's arm, intently checking the area again. Breaking the silence, he said, "I couldn't. You don't understand–"

"Then help me," Peter pressed. "Help me understand this, because I'm lost."

"Not right now," Neal said, dismissing the agent. A sound resembling a growl echoed in the room, but he ignored it and started to stitch up Shaw's bullet wound.

"Not right–not right now?" Peter asked incredulously. "Why not? What's so wrong about right now?"

"Because," Neal started, injecting some coldness into his voice. "I don't want to discuss it more than I have to. Not everyone that needs to hear what I have to say is here yet, so you're just going to have to wait. If you can't handle that, I'll be happy to show you to a detention cell where you can wait with Elizabeth. You're lucky I haven't already."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Peter seemed angry, and Neal heard El whisper something. He was focused on working on the bullet wound, and he really didn't want to look up. Although, he could imagine the worried look on El's face, and the reassuring hand on Peter's arm.

"Just what he meant, Burke," Shaw cut in, and winced as Neal poked him in a place that was not numb.

"I wasn't asking you!" Peter was on his feet in protest.

"It means what it sounds like. Sit quietly and keep your mouth shut, or I'll place you in a cell." He looked up from his work, and grey eyes pinned the agent with cold glare. "Understood?"

Peter sat down with a thud, staring at him wide-eyed again. The flash of fear that crossed the agent's brown eyes might have pleased Neal if the circumstances had been different, but now it only served to remind him of the real gulf between them. It wasn't one of criminal and law enforcement anymore.


	15. Shock and Awe

**AN:** Next chapter! This one practically wrote itself. Seriously, I think it took me about four nights (which is rather amazing for me). It's a fun chapter though, and lots of things happen and questions get (some) answers. ;) Thanks to my beta AwesomeQueenoftheLab, for her totally awesome proofreading. Hope you all enjoy the chapter, and let me know what you think of it! :D

**AN2: **I really hate to do this, but the story is now on hiatus. At least until June. I had thought I'd be able to get the next chapter done by now, but April and May have been absolutely horrible to me, in terms of school, and I really need to focus on that right now. Being a junior in high school doesn't have many perks ha-ha. But there is a bright side. The next chapter will be a long one, as planned right now, over 6,000 words. And I really want to make it a good one, so thus the wait. I haven't abandoned the story in any way. Intersect Files (shameless self-plug), for those wondering, will still be updated once in a while. One-shots are much easier to plan and write quickly. I'm really sorry about this, but I'm almost done with school so the hiatus will soon be over. :D

* * *

Chapter Fourteen – Shock and Awe

* * *

It was oppressively silent in the Studio, and Neal tried to ignore the heated glare his partner was shooting him from across the table as he flicked through some paperwork. Peter and Elizabeth had to sign more than a few papers before they could really be briefed on any classified information. He knew the conversation coming up would not be a fun one–in fact, he wouldn't be surprised if weapons were drawn–but he had time on his side. Fowler would be bringing Jones by soon, and then he would go wait for Chuck and Sarah's plane to land. After that, the shit would hit the fan.

It wasn't like he hadn't suspected this day would be coming. Deep down, when Operation Cascade had first started, he had had a feeling that someday the two worlds would collide. Sure, he was a spy, and rather good at his job if he did say so himself, but even the best-laid plans could blow up and secrets could be exposed. Nothing weighed so heavily on a person than a secret did. That, and the potential to be killed the moment he stepped back into the real world.

Five years had allowed Bryce Larkin to die and Neal Caffrey to quietly replace him. It had been one of the hardest adjustments he had ever gone through. When he had entered that prison, he had been angry–angry with Beckman, Chuck, the CIA, the world. But worst of all, he had been angry with himself. Self-loathing was something he had become used to over his career. How could it not be? He had killed people.

Some of those people had families who hadn't known their father, or mother, was secretly attempting to dismantle the intelligence community piece by piece. Children hadn't known how their mother who so lovingly kissed them goodnight had single-handedly killed three American intelligence agents, or how their father who played Barbie Fashion Show on the weekends viciously tortured a scientist for information during the week. Focusing on a target's bad characteristics never made it any less difficult to observe their otherwise normal lives. They had been people too, albeit a little misguided, but when his finger smoothly moved half an inch and pulled that trigger, part of him always died with the target.

Sure, on the outside he was cool, calm, and collected. It was how he was expected to appear. Yet inside he was shaking, terrified, and sick. He would never forget the first time he had killed someone. He had spent the whole week before the event just observing the man's comings and goings. He knew how the man got his coffee (medium drip, sprinkle of cinnamon, extra swizzle stick), what size his shoes were (8), his favorite restaurant (The Palm), how he liked his steak (medium-rare), and how he and his wife were planning on celebrating their fifth wedding anniversary with a trip to the Caribbean. Then half an inch changed his life, ended the man's life, and destroyed the wife's life.

He didn't remember much after watching the man go down in a messy spray of blood. All he did remember was the sweet scent of honeysuckle and a familiar soft embrace. Later, he had woken up to find that somehow he had ended up wrapped around Kate in a crappy motel room bed, tear stains dry on his cheeks, and her head buried against his chest. That had been the first time he began to see her as maybe more than a friend. Sure, he had been dating Sarah, and yeah, he had loved her, but Sarah wasn't Kate. Where Sarah was in control of her emotions and more than a little closed off, Kate wasn't. She was outspoken, independent, fiery, passionate, sensitive, enthusiastic. He could have gone on for a long time. She wasn't like any spy he had ever met.

Strangely, she and Sarah had gotten on amazingly. They had been best friends, practically sisters, and worked well together in the field. Of course, being the little sister of one of Sarah's old teammates didn't hurt. He knew she had felt a certain duty towards Carina's baby sister, and he saw her the same way at first too. The team had been like a family, albeit a little dysfunctional at times. With Sarah and himself as the team leaders, they had often felt more like parents, and certainly acted like it sometimes.

Then things changed. The Intersect interfered, and he had to go rogue for the sake of all of his teammates. If anyone was going to deal with Fulcrum and the Ring, it was him. The projects were his responsibility, and his alone. Granted, looking back on it he probably should have just asked for help, as it would have saved him a few bullet wounds, but he had been terrified of bringing anyone else into the loop. They hadn't been sure what, and who, they were dealing with yet, or even if the team had been compromised. He still vividly remembered lying next to a peacefully-sleeping Sarah the night he was going to break into the building housing the Intersect and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, knowing that he would not see her for a long time. Knowing that even if he lived, she would never trust him again.

It almost broke him when they had been reunited months later. Seeing her finally, but this time with Chuck. He recognized the looks she gave his old friend. How could he not, after seeing the same look directed at him for two years? That had been the worst part of it. She was falling for Chuck, and there was nothing he could, or honestly would, do to stop it.

That had been part of the reason why he decided to fake his death. He felt like part of him had already died, and at that point he didn't want to be Bryce Larkin anymore. He disconnected himself from the situation by becoming Neal Caffrey. But Neal Caffrey did have one important thing that Bryce Larkin didn't–Kate Moreau.

She had saved him from himself. His first year in that prison had been horrible because that was how he wanted it to be. On some levels he felt he deserved it. After all, prison was for killers, right? He had killed. It made sense to him.

Apparently, it had not made sense to Kate, and on one visit she had finally snapped. He'd been staring blankly at her through the glass, then she was gone and he suddenly found himself with a bruised jaw and an armful of Kate. Kate, who had comforted him after his red test, who had seen him at his absolute worst and _understood_.

They spent that night in a cell somewhere with him clutching her as he sobbed. And then their relationship suddenly changed. He was suddenly kissing her, her lips soft and responsive beneath his. It had been sweet at first, but then quickly progressed to heavy breathing and hastily removed pieces of clothing. Tears had mixed in with sweat, moans were swallowed by each other's mouths, and he had ended up just staring into her bright blue eyes with something akin to relief. Knowing that he wasn't alone anymore, and that he had someone who would stick with him. It had meant more than he could describe.

When he looked at Peter and Elizabeth now, he saw himself and Kate, and it hurt. It hurt watching them be a couple, while he and Kate had to be split up. True, he did get some opportunity to make contact with her, like the bottle and the picture, but it wasn't the same. He wanted her safe and by his side, gripping his hand as tightly as Elizabeth was currently gripping Peter's.

He knew the next day would be one of the most difficult ones of his life. Actually opening up to people was not something he did on a regular basis, and he was on tenterhooks just thinking about it. As much as it pained him to admit it, he wanted her by his side.

The hiss of a hermetic seal breaking drew his attention from the paperwork, and he and the other two looked up at the entrance. Jones was the first person in, staring wide-eyed at the space below. Neal would have laughed at the expression if the situation had not already been so tense. Fowler came in next, and there was a noise of protest from Peter.

"What the hell is he doing here?" It sounded petulant, and this time Fowler let out a barking laugh, which echoed in the cavern-like room.

"Nice to see you too, Burke. Shut your mouth, Jones, and get the hell down the stairs. I don't have all day," Fowler grumbled, and gave the shocked agent a gentle push towards the stairs leading down. There was something in his hand, and once they made it into the main area, Neal saw that it was his missing fedora. The hat slid across the glass table, messing up his papers. "Look what I found!"

Neal gratefully reached for it, quirking his lip as he fingered the smooth black fabric. He had changed into a pair of black sweats and a plain grey t-shirt, not caring about his appearance as much. They wouldn't be going out anymore tonight anyway. He'd offered a change of clothes for Peter, but the agent had just shaken his head with a quietly muttered, "No, thanks." Then again, it could have been because he had offered him magenta-colored scrubs. It wasn't like it was his fault that they didn't have the closet stocked better yet.

"Where was it?" he asked, setting the hat back down and looking over at Fowler, who was fiddling with a drawer.

"The first floor. Looked like you dropped it from a few floors up. By the way, it was a mess up there." Fowler must have found the paper he was searching for, as he turned back to Neal with a glimmer of concern in his dark eyes. "It looked like there was a struggle. Are you okay?"

"Okay, hold on!" Peter cut in, alternating a glare between Neal and Fowler accusingly. "You're in on this?"

"Why didn't you just put him in a cell earlier?" Fowler questioned seriously, and Neal's mouth twitched. "Would have saved you some trouble."

"Peter–"

"I wasn't asking you, Neal!" the agent said, repeating what he had said earlier in the car, just directed at someone different.

Fowler grinned at him, and he knew the man was itching to get one up on Peter. "In on what?" he asked innocently. Neal had the urge to bash his head into the table. Repeatedly.

Peter sputtered, throwing his hands into the air and waving them around, a wild expression on his face. "This!"

"If by 'this'," Fowler started, leaning across the table to grab one of the many pens strewn on the top of it, "you mean the secret CIA-slash-NSA con-slash-mission of the decade, then yes, I am." It was said in such a bright tone of voice that it visibly threw off the FBI agent. The man walked around the table and pulled out the chair next to Neal, who had his head in his hands, struggling to contain his amusement. "You didn't answer my question. You alright?"

"Concussion," he mumbled in-between his hands. Scrubbing them quickly over his face, he continued tiredly, "Took a tumble down some stairs. Bruised. Every. Part. Of. My. Body. Black and blue won't even begin to describe it tomorrow."

"Should you really be working?" Fowler asked, but held up his hands in surrender when Neal gave him a cold glare. "Sorry I asked."

"You should be," Neal said under his breath, and turned his glare at the paperwork in front of him. "Shaw's going to be out for a while, and I'm waiting on a conference call with Beckman. She wanted a full sit-rep before they get here. Not to mention the ridiculous amount of paperwork that needs to get filed. I took some Tylenol. I'll be fine."

Fowler pursed his lips and didn't respond, which was what Neal wanted. He wasn't up to talking anymore than he had to. An unpleasant lurking nausea was making itself known, and all he wanted to do was go lie down. But he knew that falling asleep wasn't something one with a concussion should really do, and he knew that his muscles would no doubt stiffen up. Then, he would be useless. The Tylenol did help take the edge off of the pain, though.

"So you're CIA, too?" Peter's voice broke Neal's thoughts.

"Yes," Fowler answered simply, his gaze flickering from Neal to Peter. "I'm a liaison between the Central Intelligence Agency and the National Security Agency, but my primary job is with the FBI."

"I thought you– but I– you–" Neal found it mildly amusing to see Peter Burke at a loss for words. The agent shot him a look, then directed his eyes back at Fowler, whispering, "You bugged my phone!"

"I did," Fowler said, amused as he watched Peter go red. Neal figured it was with anger. "We bugged your cell phones, too. Well, Larkin did."

"Larkin?" Elizabeth spoke softly, and Neal realized he had forgotten she was there. She had been sitting quietly filling out the forms as her husband slowly lost his cool. But now she was looking confusedly at Fowler, not having recognized the name she probably had a feeling she should have.

"Me," Neal said, folding his hands together on top of the table. He kept his attention focused on his fidgeting fingers so that he didn't have to see the look of betrayal on El's face when he told her the truth. For some reason, it felt worse then when he told Peter. He bit his lip and said quietly, "My name's not Neal Caffrey. It's Bryce Larkin."

Her hand was suddenly on top of his, stilling his uneasy movements. Startled, he raised his grey eyes to meet her surprisingly shrewd blue ones. "I know. Peter mentioned what you said at the clinic. Not your real name, of course," she hastily assured him when his eyes widened and he jerked his hands away.

"You told her about that?" he asked the agent incredulously.

Peter shrugged indifferently, still looking upset. "I don't like keeping secrets from my wife."

"Will you tell me what he did?" Fowler interrupted, sounding disgustingly like a teenage girl at a sleepover as he leaned over the table eagerly. "Because he won't talk about it."

"I know you don't," Neal said, blatantly ignoring Fowler. He splayed his hands out on the table and drummed his fingers against it. Strained silence filled the room again, and he felt at a loss for words. He caught Elizabeth fiddling with her sweatpants and blurted the first thing that came to mind: "I'm sorry I kidnapped you like this."

She sighed and tucked a piece of stray hair that was falling out of her ponytail behind her ear. "I don't doubt that it was for a good reason. Although, I have yet to hear one."

"Paperwork," Fowler grunted, seemingly irritated with the lack of attention. "Lots of forms to sign before you can learn national secrets. The government is weird like that. Jones! Get over here! You need to start filling these out."

Neal was taken aback when he remembered that the dark-skinned agent was also there. The man was standing at the base of the metal staircase, still gazing around the room slack-jawed. He'd been silent throughout the conversation.

"Jones?" Peter called out, a little bewildered by his coworker's attitude.

Jones just shakily pointed at a glass cabinet along one of the glass walls that divided the high tech spy cave. That particular cabinet held ten sleek black boxes; the front of each had randomly blinking blue indicator lights.

"Is that a Nexxus TX20 system? They're not– they're not even on the market yet!" Jones said, staring at the servers with something akin to reverence. Neal saw his fingers twitch, as if he wanted to reach across the room and touch them.

"I knew there was a reason why I hated you," Fowler said.

At the same time, Neal said delightedly, "I knew there was a reason why I liked you!"

* * *

People in New York were diverse. They were multicultural. It wasn't hard to blend in with the crowd, which was why the stout, bald, eyeglasses-wearing goateed man who was dressed like a crazy college professor was not paid much attention to. Perfect for him, not so lucky for the man he was tailing.

"I don't know why I do this," the man grumbled to himself, sharp eyes locked on a tall blonde man a ways ahead of him in the crowd.

"Never again, I told him. Never again. But no, he had to go and compromise Tuesday. Why he couldn't meet me at Friday–"

"_Moz, Carson?"_ a man's tired voice crackled in his ear, and he resisted the urge to itch it.

He hated earwigs. While he knew that this particular one wasn't going to secretly implant a government tracking device into the skin in his ear, it still made him shiver. Then again, he supposed they were already tracking him some other way.

"He's stopped at an ATM. Lining his pockets with my money, no doubt." He paused when the blonde suddenly looked up shiftily, and he casually glanced around the busy area to avoid drawing the man's suspicion.

"_You don't pay taxes, Moz." _He could practically see Neal rolling his eyes in exasperation.

"Yeah, well, what are they gonna do about it?" he shot back, switching his attention back to Carson when the man turned back to the ATM machine.

"_We're the CIA, not the IRS."_

"Unless you're dyslexic," Mozzie muttered, pulling out his phone and holding it up as if he was looking for service. He was really secretly snapping pictures of Aaron Carson. It wasn't as dirty as it might have sounded.

"_I– wait, what?"_ Neal sounded confused, and Mozzie loved it. _"Never mind. Do you have the pictures?"_

"Uploading them right now. I must say, he looks to be worse for wear," he said quietly, slanting his gaze at the oblivious man stuffing money into his pockets. "What did you do to him? Push him down some stairs?"

"_Nothing he didn't deserve,"_ Neal replied darkly, and this time Mozzie rolled his eyes. Then he realized what Neal meant, and his eyes bugged out a little.

"You actually did push him down some stairs, didn't you?" He shook his head, mildly amused at his friend's antics. Seeing that Carson was on the move again, he pretended to push some numbers on the phone and held it up to his ear. The phone also had the added benefit of not making him look like he was crazy as he talked to himself. He resumed trailing the unaware man at a distance.

"_The pictures just came through, thanks. Do you mind following him for a while longer? Fowler needs to make sure Peter's house is clear when he goes to pick up some of their stuff for the night. I'd prefer to have eyes on Carson so he doesn't surprise him."_

"For the Suits? Of course," he said, then paused for a moment. "How'd he take it?"

The bitter laugh from Neal caused him to wince. _"As well as a friend would when they realize everything they'd been told by you was a lie. Not good," _the man said, and Mozzie caught the defeated sigh. _"I wasn't sure if he was going to shoot me or himself because he wanted to make sure he wasn't dreaming. Then Fowler came, and I'm pretty sure he almost shot him, too."_

"Three may keep a secret–"

"_If two of them are dead. Not sure that really applies, Moz, but thanks for the sentiment,"_ Neal said sarcastically, and Mozzie could make out quiet chuckling through the earwig. It made him feel a little better that he had gotten his friend to laugh, but he thought it sounded a little hysterical. _"I need to go. Fowler will contact you when he gets near the Burkes'. Stay on Carson, and let me know immediately if anything changes."_

* * *

Chuck eyed the back of their agency contact's head with suspicion as the man expertly drove the large car towards their destination. The guy, Fowler, as he had introduced himself (and the Intersect had confirmed that fact), had a grin on his face that made Chuck uneasy. There was just something unsettling about him, and he couldn't shake the feeling that the agent was laughing at him for some reason. He'd surreptitiously checked his reflection in the rearview mirror to check if he had something embarrassing stuck in his teeth or a smudge of dirt on his face. Having seen nothing that could account for the man's amusement, he occupied himself with fidgeting with his wedding band.

This part of a mission always made him antsy, and with good reason. There had been missions before where the agent who was supposedly taking them to a CIA substation or rendezvous point ended up drugging them and locking them in a cellar somewhere in Russia. Some good had come of that, though. Since that particular incident, they had made sure that Sarah wore an underwire bra on missions. It wasn't really her fault that men rather enjoyed the view too much to realize that the wire could be used to pick locks and kill them–until it was too late, of course. But really, he wasn't complaining.

This time, however, he had a feeling that the guy wasn't a danger to either of them. He caught Sarah's eye and gave her a tiny nod. She understood, and nodded back with a smile. Her hand found his, and they entwined their fingers. He was pretty sure he heard a gagging sound coming from the man in the driver's seat of the SUV, but he ignored it in favor of beaming back at her.

Suddenly, the sound of Cee Lo Green's _Fuck You_ rang throughout the car, and it took a moment before Chuck realized that it was Fowler's phone. Slightly amused at the song choice, he watched the man answer it with a curt, "What do you want?"

They could barely make out the voice on the other end from their position in the back of the car, but it sounded like a question relating to their location. Chuck's hypothesis was confirmed when the agent said, "I'm looking for a place to park. We'll be there in a few."

With a snap, the phone was shut and shoved into a jacket pocket. He met the agent's eyes in the mirror, and hastily looked out the window when he saw the annoyed expression. The guy almost reminded him of Casey, but not quite as much of a hard ass.

Minutes passed as Chuck watched cars go by as the man tried to park. From experience, he knew how hard it was to parallel park a level four armored car. The New York traffic served only to exasperate the situation, and it was another five minutes before they were finally out of the car and out onto the sidewalk. It was quite warm outside, but there was the distinct chill in the air of approaching night.

Without a word to the two of them, Fowler started towards a nearby alleyway, carrying two black duffel bags that Chuck had only just noticed. He kept his grip on Sarah's hand and raised his eyebrows at her, extending one hand in front of him.

"After you," he said, knowing how much she liked it when he acted all gentlemanly. She shook her head in amusement and pulled him forward. Together they trailed after the mysterious agent, coming to the mouth of the alleyway and turning into it.

Set in the wall ahead of them, he recognized the subtle security features that many of the CIA bases had. They waited as the agent let his eye be scanned, and then watched as the slightly rusty door opened. Striding into the exposed hallway, Chuck and Sarah again watched as the agent unarmed the security features. With a hiss, the steel door was opened, and they walked in. He let out a chuckle when he took in the room. Almost exactly like Castle, it already felt a bit like home. Fowler had started down the stairs, so they followed his lead.

Halfway down the metal steps, he realized that there was a new man sitting at the table in the briefing area. He had his back to them and looked casual with sweat pants on, and his legs were extended out in front of him to rest on the table. As much as he tried, Chuck couldn't make out any distinguishing features yet. Another thing that struck him was the fedora on top of his head. It was certainly an odd combination of clothing. Who was this man?

Fowler seemed to know, as he walked right over and said in a singsong voice that didn't quite match his disposition, "Honey! I'm home. And look who I found!"

The man slowly put his feet down and turned in the chair. He appeared reluctant to look at them, and kept the fedora low on his face as he stood. Something was off. Chuck knew something was off. There was a familiarity about the man that was striking. It caused his breath to catch, and he let go of Sarah's hand. No. There was– it wasn't– it wasn't possible.

With an apologetic grin, the man tipped the hat up, and tired grey eyes met shocked brown.

"Hello, Chuck."

Chuck Bartowski did the first thing that came to mind- something he had not done in years. He shrieked like a little girl, and punched Bryce Larkin in the face.


	16. Chain Reaction

**AN:** Finally, right? Feel free to skip the rather long author notes, and get to the chapter ;D I'm taking this off of hiatus. I apologize from the bottom of my heart for the wait. It was a bit mean of me, but it wasn't my intention to put it on hiatus after that chapter in particular. I was a junior in high school (now a senior :D ), and a few weeks after I posted that chapter I realized I would need to set this aside. Unfortunately, fanfiction isn't nearly as important as school. I wish I could write for you guys all the time, but I can't. As much as I would have liked be able to work on both school and writing, I know many can do it successfully, I just couldn't. Simple as that. Thank you for the support though! The reviews and feedback for that last chapter were amazing, and I am very, very grateful. I'm gonna try and reply to them over the course of the next few days. Big thanks to AwesomeQueenoftheLab for going over this for me :D

**AN2: **I have a tumblr now, so if you're interested... :D My url is need-to-know. Let me know you found me through here, and I'll follow back.

**AN3:** I was able to make a fanvid now too. It's focused on Vital Lies more than Cascade, but I am planning a video for this story also. I put it up on YouTube, as Secrets - White Collar/Chuck. Feel free to check it out and let me know what you think! The link will be in my profile also.

**AN4:** I'm planning on changing my pen name soon. Just a warning, in case you're wondering why you're getting a story alert by an author you don't recognize.

* * *

Chapter Fifteen - Chain Reaction

Neal reeled back from the blow. Pain flared up his jaw and the left side of his face as he put hand on his cheek, staring at his old friend passively. Chuck had never liked his entrances, but then again, springing this on the two was probably not his best idea ever.

Chuck looked shocked, either from punching someone or the fact that it was Bryce Larkin standing in front of him (Neal wasn't sure). The shocked expression quickly morphed into anger again when Neal met his eyes. In a flash, he was pinned to the unforgiving concrete wall, the other spy's arm across his throat, uncomfortably pressing down on his airway and partially restricting his ability to breathe. He had to tilt his head back slightly under the strain, but he didn't say anything yet.

"Who are you?" Chuck growled, brown eyes flashing as they scanned his face almost desperately.

"I think you know who I am already, Chuck," Neal rasped, shifting under the hold a little more when the pressure across his throat increased.

"That man died. Four years ago. In front of me." Chuck's voice was cold, and if Neal hadn't known his friend better he would have been terrified. "So, I'll ask again. Who are you?"

He knew he had several options for response, but he was having a hard time trying to remember them. The strike to the side of his face, combined with his concussion, exhaustion, and current lack of full ability to breathe was making it difficult for him to grasp everything that was happening. Thoughts were a little fleeting; however, he hadn't been called one of the best spies the CIA had ever produced for nothing. To a certain extent, he thrived on difficult conditions.

So he stared into Chuck's questioning gaze and said quietly, "My name is Neal Caffrey."

Chuck's eyes widened, as if hit with a sudden epiphany. Yet his expression contradicted that by going completely blank. The hold on Neal disappeared, and he allowed his body to slide down the wall, not even bothering to hide his discomfort as he took in a deep lungful of air. Even when he was sitting, his vision was slightly blurry and his heart still beat too fast for it to be healthy. But he blearily peered up at his friend's form above him, scrutinizing the man's tense posture and empty eyes, and ignoring his own problems.

"Chuck!"

The sound of Sarah's concerned voice pierced through his observations, and when he fully turned his attention to his old flame the ache in his chest increased ten-fold. He watched as she grabbed Chuck's arms and spun him around to face her, only to realize what was happening with him.

"What did you say to him?" she asked shrilly, shooting him a panicked look where he was still sitting on the floor. It was obvious to him she was scared – flashes didn't normally last this long. But she didn't know just how much information was contained in this specific flash. And he did.

"What he wanted to know," he choked out, his bruised body convulsing painfully as he leaned to the side, coughing uncontrollably. He forgot how unpleasant it was to have one's airway forcibly constricted. Vibrations from the floor told him someone was slowly approaching him from the right, and he shot Fowler a relieved look as the man reached down to help him up.

"Your entrances always did leave something to be desired," Fowler muttered into his ear, sounding amused as he hefted him up from the floor and allowed him to throw an arm around his neck. Neal would have hit him, if he had the energy. As it was, he was grateful for the support, because now Sarah was suddenly drawing her weapon on him, and she didn't seem happy.

"Why should I trust you? Give me a reason." She was serious, Neal could tell, but her voice trembled slightly and the gun's aim actually wavered. He knew it was because, to her, he resembled someone she had thought was long dead. It was unsettling, no doubt. Opening his mouth to reply, he was handily beat when Chuck uttered one word.

"Sarah."

Obviously the tone caught her attention, and everyone else's in the room also. It was a mixture of resignation, shock, joy, and exhaustion. The man turned around, and Neal almost sagged in Fowler's arms in relief when he realized his name worked like it should have.

"Chuck?" She lowered her weapon slightly, eyes trained on her husband as if waiting for a confirmation of something.

He didn't answer her, instead slowly approaching Neal and Fowler, who let him go (the traitor), so he was left swaying where he stood. Warily, he watched Chuck come to stand in front of him, then started when the man's hands where suddenly on his upper arms, gripping tight.

"Bryce." Chuck's voice was soft, but Neal didn't miss the undercurrent of anxiety. It was phrased as a statement, and not a question, for a reason.

"It's nice to see you, Chuck," he answered honestly, running his eyes across the man's face. "It's been too long."

And that was all it took to break the dam. He found himself engulfed in Chuck's arms, absently noting the much more developed musculature than he remembered previously, as his old friend squeezed the life out of him. For now, he ignored the tears gathering at the corner of his eyes, and silently hugged back just as tightly.

"I thought you were dead, Bryce," Chuck whispered into his ear, shaking his head before he pulled away slightly to meet his eyes. "But all this time you were just– just undercover."

Neal opened his mouth to respond, but Sarah cut him off. "What? I don't… I don't understand."

She had lowered her gun, and was instead gazing at him blankly. Chuck shot him a look before slipping out of their embrace completely and slowly walking over towards her. It was almost as if he was approaching a wild animal that could attack at any moment. Gently placing his hands on her arms, Chuck spoke softly.

"Sarah, you need to listen to me, and you need to listen closely. Bryce is alive. He's standing right there." Chuck half turned towards him, and Sarah glanced back and forth between the two. Neal nodded silently, gesturing for the spy to continue. "It's a really long story, and not really mine to tell, but you need to believe me." Chuck turned back to Sarah and took her face in his hands, drawing her attention away from Neal. "Would I ever lie to you?"

"How do you know?" she asked, and Neal was startled to note the tremor in her voice. "He could be lying."

"He's not," Chuck replied surely, still gazing into her shining blue eyes. His mouth curved into a wry grin. "I– I flashed on him. According to the Intersect, he really is Bryce Larkin."

"The Intersect could be wrong," she asserted, her face looking anguished.

Even from across the room, Neal could make out tears finally leaking out from the corners of her eyes. He ducked his head, ignoring the sharp jolt of pain the movement caused, punishing himself in a way. Before they had arrived, he knew this was going to be tough, but he didn't think it would be this tough – on all of them.

"The Intersect is never wrong," he said, pushing off from the wall and making his way towards them. His balance was a little off without the support of the wall, but he managed to stay upright. When he made it to the couple, he hesitated before reaching out and placing a hand on Sarah's arm. She looked at it in teary-eyed amazement, then back up to his familiar face. "And I never died, Sarah. I'm so sorry. You weren't– " he cast his eyes down, unable to look at either of them. "You were never supposed to find out what happened."

"Never find out?" Her voice was abruptly as sharp as the various knives hidden on her person, and her blue eyes were absolutely frigid as she started him down, the tear tracks marring her face, making it no less terrifying. She ripped her arm out of his and Chuck's grasp and backed away slightly. "Never find out that what? You were alive? Because that's not something I needed to know?"

"Sarah, that's not it– " Chuck started, but was cut off by Neal.

"Yes," he said, his voice trembling. From what, he wasn't sure yet. "That's exactly it. You don't think I didn't want to make some kind of contact with you? I tried to convince Beckman to at least let me say goodbye, but she felt it was safer for your team if you didn't know the truth. Damn it, Sarah, you know what it's like going undercover. The fewer people who know about it, the better for everyone involved. I had a mission to think about. There wasn't time."

"And look at the good it's done you," she said, her pretty face twisting into a sneer that Neal had never seen directed at him. The intensity of it took his breath away, and it felt like he had been kicked in the chest. He stumbled back as she advanced on him like a predator would on prey. "You messed it up. Something went wrong. We're here to clean up your stupid mistake," she spat, and he couldn't control the flinch. "So don't you dare tell me you had a mission to think about, Bryce." Somehow she made his name sound like a vulgar swearword. He should have expected what happened next.

His head snapped to the side, as her palm made contact with his face. In the exact same spot that Chuck hit him earlier. His eyes watered from the pain that now radiated across his face, and he bought up a hand to his throbbing cheek. Her next words were also expected, but no less painful.

"I hate you."

"Sarah! Sarah, wait!" Chuck called desperately after her as she strode off further into the Studio, and he started to follow her until he remembered what she had done to Neal. Glancing back at him, he just waved off the concern.

"Go," he said, his voice cracking as he moved hurt muscles. "She needs you more than I do."

The relief and understanding in Chuck's eyes was almost heartbreaking. He watched as the man nodded, then turned and hurried after his wife. Once he was out of sight, the automatic door hissing closed behind him, Neal collapsed. Or, he would have, if someone hadn't caught him and lowered him down slowly.

"You okay?" It was Fowler, whom he had completely forgotten was still in the room. And he just saw everything. "Girl's got quite the, ah, upper body strength."

"I don't– " Suddenly, he really wasn't feeling great. It finally seemed that his body was protesting the abuse it had been put through. Apparently, tumbling down a flight of stairs, getting a concussion, being punched in the face, slightly choked, being slapped in an unpleasantly similar way, and lack of sleep wasn't very conductive to consciousness. Even though he was obviously sitting, he felt more like he was floating. The room was spinning, and he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep. And not think, because thinking really hurt.

"Caffrey? Caffrey? Hey, Bryce!"

Someone was slapping his face, and, annoyed, he swatted the hand away, leaning back into the warm body behind him.

"G'way," he mumbled, his eyes beginning to slid shut.

"Damn it, Larkin, I really don't want to carry your scrawny ass all the way to the med wing," the voice said, shifting its arms underneath his armpits to try and leverage him up into a standing position.

"I resssent that," he slurred, allowing himself to be hoisted up. "I'm lithe, not scrawny. Ooh, hey. That tickles! Where're we goin'?"

"To go visit your idiot friend in the med wing. He can babysit you for a while. And, if you're lucky, keep you conscious."

* * *

She ran her fingers over the smooth wood floor, stubbornly ignoring the tears streaming down her face and the sob that was stuck in her throat, trying to escape. Absently tracing the swirls in the cherry wood, she didn't even glance over when she heard the door to the training room open. She knew who it was.

A pair of sneaker-clad feet entered her field of vision, and a moment later her husband was situating himself in front of her, crossing his long legs Indian style. Her own legs where bent up in front of her, and she rested her chin on her knees, wrapping an arm around them. She could feel his gaze on her face, and she knew he was waiting for her to instigate the conversation.

"I just don't understand," she whispered after a moment of silence, staring at his fidgeting hands instead of looking at his face. "It's been four years. Why didn't he– " Her voice cut out pathetically, and she found she couldn't continue.

"Sarah," Chuck sounded cautious, "I don't think he meant for us to find out like this."

Her eyes snapped up to his sad brown ones. Considering his earnest expression, she asked incredulously, "You think we ever would have found out that he was still alive? Don't be stupid, Chuck."

Another man might not have enjoyed his wife telling him that he was stupid, but Chuck didn't even blink. "I think we would have eventually."

"And why do you think he would tell us? Huh? Because it's the right thing to do? Because he felt bad for deceiving us?" She couldn't sit still anymore, and she pushed herself up, beginning to pace in front of him. "He's a spy. Deception is in the job description."

"I'm well acquainted with that fact, yes," Chuck joked, but she just glared and he conceded. "It's really not my place to say."

"You know why he lied?"

He hesitated, looking uneasy as she knelt in front of him and grabbed his hands in hers. "I have an pretty good idea, yes. It's just– I don't quite understand everything. The Intersect only goes so far."

"I don't care," she said, holding his gaze and trying to convey how much she needed to at least know something. "Just tell me something. I need to know something."

Maybe it was the pleading tone. Maybe it was her trembling upper lip, or her shining eyes. In any case, her heart beat a little faster when he sighed, and glanced down at their entwined hands.

"Okay," he started quietly. "Okay, yeah. I– do you… remember the Omaha Project?"

* * *

It had to be past midnight, but without a watch and his currently being underground, Chuck could only guess. He wasn't even going to attempt to try and get some sleep, though. The conversation with Sarah had left him keyed up, so he decided to go to the med wing and see how his team leader was doing. Thankfully, it was easy to find. He really did love the fact that the building layout was always the same for these types of installations.

He dragged his feet a little when the door came into view, the rubber soles of his shoes squeaking on the tile floor, causing him to pick up his feet again and grin sheepishly. The automatic door hissed open as he got closer, and he strode into the medical wing. As his sister was a doctor, he had been quite familiar with hospitals before becoming a spy, and it always amazed him how much money the CIA had to have spent on the state-of-the-art equipment in most of their substations.

The surgical suites alone probably cost more than a million dollars, and he didn't even want to guess how much the MRI machines and CT scanners cost. They barely got used, but they were there for the agent's comfort. From experience, he knew how unpleasant it was to have to try and explain off injuries, such as how one gets stabbed through both hands, to a doctor. And by doctor he meant Ellie, and by being stabbed he meant accidentally letting his concentration slip while he and Sarah were practicing a particularly complex knife-throwing maneuver. He still had the scars (and he told Sarah never to wear that top again while they practiced throwing sharp objects at each other).

He paused at the entrance, taking in the still slightly surreal scene. Bryce Larkin was sprawled out on one of the hospital beds, snoring, his face buried in the pillow that he had clutched to his chest. The sight was more fascinating then it should have been, and he couldn't help but stare.

"He looks peaceful, doesn't he?" a quiet voice cut through his observations. He glanced over at its owner.

Shaw was sitting propped up in another hospital bed, reading glasses perched on his nose and a file in his lap. His left arm was in a sling, with bandages twining up his upper arm and continuing up under his grey shirtsleeve. Chuck let out a sigh of relief at his team leader's lack of major injury, and a small smile lit his face as he walked closer.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, electing to not answer Shaw's question. Instead, he grabbed the medical chart hanging off the foot of the bed and glanced over it curiously.

"Drugged," Shaw answered curtly, pulling off his glasses and setting them on top of the file. Chuck glanced up at him over the chart and frowned as he watched the man wearily run a hand over his face and close his eyes, leaning his head back against the pillows.

"Ah," he said, placing the file back in its place and walking over to the chair before dropping into it. He perched his elbows on the armrests and held his clasped hands in front of him, just observing the man. "So, a little fuzzy then?"

"You could say that," the man muttered, not moving.

"How's the arm?"

"It was just a scratch."

Chuck snorted, and Shaw cracked an eye open to glare at him. "That's what you said last time. And do I really have to remind you that last time you were shot in the chest and almost bled out in front of me?" The glare was now full force, and he just grinned back easily, teasing, "You're not exactly an accurate judger of injuries, oh great one."

"Chuck?"

"Yup?"

"Shut up."

"If that is what you command of me, oh great one, fine. I always knew that power would get to your head eventually," he said, wiggling his fingers at the man and raising his eyebrows. He was pleased when the childish move earned him an eye roll and a quiet laugh. Mission accomplished, he let his hands fall to his lap and continued. "In all seriousness, why aren't you out like a light? I can give you more painkillers if it's the pain keeping you up. You were due for more, like, a half an hour ago."

Shaw shook his head and slanted his eyes towards the bed opposite him containing Bryce. "I can't. I need to, but ah– " the man hissed in pain as he shifted in the bed and jarred his injury. Chuck moved to help him, but was waved off. "I'm fine! I'm fine. It's just, someone needs to wake him up at regular intervals."

"What?" Chuck asked, startled. "Why?"

"Funny story," Shaw said, gritting his teeth a little as he moved to place the file on the table by the bed. "He was tackled down a flight of stairs today. The bastard then saw fit to bash his head into the ground. He had a mild concussion earlier, but after you and Sarah…"

"Are you serious?" he choked, giving the snoring man on the bed a concerned look.

"Added to that, I don't think he's gotten a proper night's rest in months." He and Shaw pulled sympathetic faces. "He wasn't doing so hot when Garrett bought him in. He was completely dead on his feet and muttering something about his entrances being 'too showy for some people', whatever the hell that means." Chuck let out a surprised laugh at that, and Shaw shot him a fleeting look. "I don't want to know."

"And I wasn't going to elaborate." A comfortable silence settled between the two, and Chuck watched Bryce sleep on, oblivious to his surroundings. "You know, I can't say I'm exactly surprised."

"Hmmm." Chuck took that as a cue that his friend was listening, and to continue.

"Bryce always did have this nine-lives thing going for him. I remember the first time I thought he had been killed." A grim chuckle escaped his lips, and his gaze was in the past. "Sarah was the one to tell me, you know. I think it was more difficult for her to admit it than it was for me to accept it. Then again, I had just realized my date wasn't quite what she said she was, and had been almost positive that she was about to shoot me in the head. It didn't quite sink in until later.

"I don't even think I was truly upset over it either. When I saw the obituary, all I felt was rage. Why did he send this to me? What was I, some Stanford dropout who worked as a hired nerd, supposed to do with it? The closest I was to being a spy involved walking into my living room, turning on my Xbox, and picking up a controller." Shaw snorted, and Chuck would have hit him if the man wasn't obviously hurt. So instead he just huffed and went on, "I'll have you know, I held the highest score in Call of Duty at the Buy More. It's a very prestigious title."

"I'm sure."

"But that's not the point," he said, giving Shaw a warning look, as it seemed like the man was going to make some smartass remark and then thought better of it. Leaning forward in the chair, he continued, "The point is I wasn't prepared. For any of it. After the first few 'missions', I lay in bed at night those first couple of weeks, staring at the ceiling and just thinking, 'I could be dead this time tomorrow.' And the worst part was I knew if I did die, my sister would never be told the truth. It'd be covered up just like Bryce's."

"That's always a difficult thing for anyone in the business to grasp," Shaw replied quietly.

"It was– " he stopped, thinking of how to phrase it. "It was one of the more difficult issues I dealt with, that's for sure. But I knew that when I died, I would be dead. Bryce apparently was luckier than many."

"I wouldn't speak too quickly," Shaw said, going on to explain when he saw Chuck's startled expression. "I was his case officer for his first mission back. It– he was pretty messed up. The Ring– " he hesitated again, "they weren't exactly nice to him while they were holding him."

Chuck did a double take. He hadn't known Shaw knew Bryce. It did make sense, though, he supposed. Both had been working on similar goals. But did that last confession imply what he thought it might? He waited for the man to go on, but when he changed the subject, he was a little disappointed.

"You know, he didn't send it to you on a whim," Shaw said softly, meeting Chuck's eyes for a moment before looking down. "He knew that you would be able to handle it, no matter how much he no doubt tried to deny that fact over and over to himself. He also knew that, unlike many might have done if suddenly given that kind of information, you wouldn't let it corrupt you. Even after all those years apart, he just knew. He certainly put a lot of faith in the assumption that you would actually open the e-mail, despite the bad blood, and years apart, between you two."

"And the notion that I would actually remember his damn code words."

Shaw laughed loudly at that, then winced and stopped when the movement bothered his arm in the sling. He shifted around a bit and sounded a little distracted as he said, "Bryce always did like the mystery. There were many occasions where reports that were written in Klingon landed on my desk, just because he knew it would bug me and because it was cryptic enough to satisfy his need for secrecy."

Chuck bit his lip, and turned his head towards Bryce. "Has he… changed much? I haven't– I didn't really, ah, get the chance to talk to him yet."

The other spy was quiet for a moment, as if trying to think of what to say in response to that. It had been a question on Chuck's mind since he flashed on Neal Caffrey and the long string of aliases that followed. As a spy, he knew all about playing a role. He also knew how easy it sometimes was to forget about yourself in the process. He wasn't quite sure he could deal with the thought of a different Bryce Larkin, even though he hadn't see the man in four years.

"There are… some differences. If you hadn't known him before, you'd think Bryce Larkin and Neal Caffrey were completely different people. Like two separate characters played by the same actor. Physically, they're the same, but personality-wise– that's another story."

"So he has changed," Chuck said, trying not to sound too upset.

"He's gotten a little… softer, I guess you could say." Shaw looked like he was pondering something. "I think part of it was the result of being secluded for such a long time, but Kate and Agent Burke might have been contributing factors. He can still be cold when the situation calls for it, but he's more aware of how his actions affect others than he was before, I think. At least, that's what I got out of interacting with him these past few days."

Oh, yeah. Chuck forgot that Shaw was in the same boat as the rest of the team. The man had probably found out a little sooner than he had, though. He wondered how that conversation with Beckman went. She probably dropped the news while Shaw had been doing something like sipping hot coffee or fiddling with his stupid cigarette lighter. The woman could be sadistic when she felt the inclination.

He still vividly remembered when she had once told them – with a completely straight face, he might add – that their next mission would involve him going undercover with Shaw as his boyfriend and them pretending to have sex in a hotel room so that they could plant a bug on the occupants in the room on the other side of the wall without raising undue suspicion. It had seemed entirely too horrifyingly plausible at first, considering that Sarah had been sick that week with the flu, it took time to set that specific bug correctly, and they had used that technique before to great success. Then he saw her smirk and never before had he wanted to break down in both tears of joy and rage. Every April Fools' after that he believed nothing out of that woman's mouth, unless it was in writing also. And how the hell did he go from Bryce Larkin to that memory?

Shaking his head, as if the movement would clear his consternating thought process, he mumbled a vague, "I see."

"Mmhmm," Shaw hummed in response. He sounded half-asleep.

Watching the man doze for a bit, Chuck got a sudden idea. "If you'd like, I can give you that dose of pain meds, and I can keep watch to make sure Snorlax over there doesn't slip into a coma. Sarah and I rested on the plane, and I'm a little too jazzed up to sleep right now. It'll be fine. You need the rest more than I do."

Shaw lazily cracked open one eye and eyed him before nodding and saying, "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

" – then he just fired off two rounds. The first one almost hit me, but the second one got the guy. I think that's when I realized something about this consult wasn't right."

"So Neal shot him? Just like that."

"That wasn't Neal. I don't– I've never seen Neal act like that, Clinton. He wasn't Neal. It wasn't right. There was so much going on, and I just– all I can think about is that cold look on his face, and the way his eyes just looked so… dead. I've seen that look before. You've seen it before. In interrogation rooms with killers."

"You're having a hard time consolidating the Neal you thought you knew to the Neal you saw. Peter, have you thought about just talking with him? I mean, I know tomorrow– "

"Today."

"Whatever. In any case, we're getting briefed on something. Maybe just find him in the morning and sit down and just talk. It wouldn't hurt, and, Peter, I think he's just wary of your reaction."

"I'm not planning on punching his lights out for lying to me, if that's what you're implying."

"Peter."

"Sorry."

"Liar."

"… Did Fowler mention anything to you?"

"Other than, 'Get your ass in the car, Agent Jones, before I do it for you'? No. I attempted to ask where he was taking me, but considering Hughes seemed okay with it, I didn't think there was much need after he told me to 'Keep your mouth shut, and no one will get shot.'"

"He certainly has a way with words. Wait– you said Hughes authorized it?"

"I think he got an order from the Department of Justice. He didn't look happy, but he never looks happy. Cruz seemed confused, too."

"Fowler mentioned something about her clearance not going through yet."

"Ah… This is some real serious shit."

"Did you see the forms? Top-secret clearances. The only way you can get those is after months of background checks and interviews."

"I had a feeling something was off when Neal asked me if I had ever dated someone from China a couple of months back."

* * *

El sat on one of the chairs in the kitchen area, listening to her husband and Jones talk about Neal, or Bryce rather, and running her hands through Satchmo's soft fur. He had his head on her lap and his big brown eyes looked curious.

"Want to go explore a little, Satch? I have a feeling these two will be at it for a while, and mamma really doesn't want to sit here all night. Plus, I think we could do with a walk, huh?"

She smiled as his tail thumped against the floor in excitement and then she quietly got up, heading towards the door.

"El?" Peter suddenly called out, and she turned. "Did you want someone to walk back to the room with you? This place is like a labyrinth."

"I appreciate the gesture, hun, but I'm pretty sure our room is right next door." At his sheepish grin, she shook her head in exasperation and bent down to pet Satchmo, who was demanding attention.

"Okay, Clinton and I'll be done here in a while."

"Take as much time as you need, but not too long. Both of you need the rest," she said, looking at them sternly. Clinton ducked his head, hiding a smirk no doubt, and Peter just nodded. "Good. See you in a bit. Night, Clinton."

"Goodnight, Elizabeth."

Turning on her heel, she whistled lowly, and Satchmo followed after her obediently. The door opened for her as she approached, and she heard her husband and the other agent start speaking again as she walked out into the hallway, past their current accommodations. It wasn't that she had lied to Peter. She really was going to go back to their room. Eventually.

Taking a right turn down the next hallway, then a left followed by another right, she was happy to come upon the main room. Despite Peter's apparent lack of faith in her navigational skills, she did have excellent memory. When that Fowler guy had led them to their rooms, she had simply remembered the turns they had made and done the opposite.

It was still quite bright in the room, considering the late hour. All the monitors were running, a gentle hum in the background, and the lighted table cast an eerie blue glow against the grey concrete walls. The florescent strip lights were out, though, so at first she almost missed the pretty blonde woman sitting in one of the rolling computer chairs next to a desk. She must have made a surprised noise, because the woman suddenly looked up and locked eyes with her.

"Hello." El was pretty sure her voice came out squeakier than it should have, but something about the woman's eyes made her nervous.

"Hello," the woman replied simply. They stared at each other for a moment, unsure and wary of each other.

"I'm Elizabeth. Elizabeth Burke," she said, feeling a need to introduce herself. She walked around the table, and extended a hand.

"Sarah," the woman said, accepting her offered gesture with slight reluctance. Her grip was strong, though. "Agent Sarah Walker."

"I suppose I don't even have to ask which agency. You worked with Neal, right? Sorry, Bryce," she corrected herself. It was hard for her to keep the names straight. "Satchmo, sit."

Sarah seemed shocked at that question, but composed herself quickly enough. "We were partners for a period of time, yes. How did you, ah, know?"

"He's mentioned you before. And Chuck, your husband I believe?"

"Yeah. I mean, yes, we're married. Mentioned me how?"

El frowned, unsure of how much to actually say now. She was sure that Neal wouldn't be upset with her, but it really wasn't her place to tell. However, Sarah was suddenly staring at her with such a captivated look that she decided she had to say something.

"Well, he only really let it slip to my husband, Peter. He's Neal's… handler, I think the term is, for the FBI." She felt like she had to explain, although she had a feeling that Sarah already knew some of the information. "He only mentioned you once, I guess. During a case. He'd been drugged."

The woman groaned at that and tucked a stray piece of blonde hair back behind her ear. Her demeanor had changed from wary to exasperated in what seemed like a second. "Bryce always did have a problem with sedatives. He could never keep his mouth shut."

Elizabeth laughed lightly and moved to sit down on the tabletop. "He was quite… vocal. Then again, that's not quite different from how he usually is. Although, he's usually much more closed off about– those things," she finished lamely, as Sarah's eyes widened.

"He– " she started, her eyes slanting away and her face looking pained. "That's not– that sounds… nice. Bryce wasn't– he wasn't exactly outgoing. With me."

"Were you and he– "

"More than partners?"

"Sorry," El hurried to add. "It was rude of me to ask– "

"It's okay," Sarah assured her. "Bryce and I– it's, well, complicated."

"When isn't it?" El joked, trying to lighten the mood some. She had a feeling this topic was a tough one, but she also had a feeling that from what Neal had said already, this woman would need someone to talk to. Her motherly instincts had flared up the moment she spotted the blonde's defeated posture.

Sarah sighed, her fingers beating a staccato beat against her thigh in nervousness. She shot El a glance, and El gave her an encouraging look in return, then cast her eyes down.

"I don't even know why I'm talking to you. I don't know you."

"Sweetie, I get the feeling that it's a hard thought for everyone to grasp– that Bryce is alive." El looked away, staring at one of the monitors, lost in thought. "I mean, I can't even imagine how I would feel if I thought Peter had died, then suddenly, years later, I find out he lived and was really undercover for some secret spy mission. It sounds like a plot out of one of those convoluted spy novels Peter always reads."

"I hate those books. They're never accurate," Sarah muttered under her breath, and when she caught El's eye she took a deep breath as if steeling herself. "The agency has always… advocated dating within. There were so many security risks to be considered if we did date outside that it just made it infeasible, I guess. Bryce was– there."

"That makes sense. I remember when Peter was becoming an agent; they made me go through extensive questioning."

Sarah nodded. "A clean background is almost a must when working in government."

"Almost?"

The woman winced and looked away. "Let's just say the CIA is a little less… concerned about certain things."

"Ah," El said, letting it drop. "I see. So you and Bryce…"

"Yeah. I mean, we were together."

"Were you… in love?" El asked, slightly hesitant. She watched as Sarah's face paled a little, and instantly felt bad. "Oh my gosh. I'm sorry! It's just– "

"He was." El barely caught the answer, as the woman had whispered it so quietly. It looked like hurt the woman to admit it, but her voice was stronger as she continued, "I think– I think he was. I'd never– never really been in a relationship like that before. It was just new and– "

"Scary?"

"Exactly," Sarah said quietly. "I always did have trouble with expressing my emotions. It sort of comes with the territory of working in intelligence, I guess. But I suppose I loved him in some way. I mean, I trusted him with my life, and he made me happy. That has to count for something, right?"

The lost expression on Sarah's face made El feel a little bad. It wasn't her intention to bring up painful memories, and now it seemed like she had made the poor woman's night worse. "It counts for a lot. I hope I'm not overstepping here, but have you thought about just finding him in the morning and sitting down and talking with him?"

Sarah looked strangely apologetic and leaned her head on her hand. "I'm not sure if he wants to talk. I wasn't exactly… amiable to him earlier."

"I have a feeling that he knew you were going to act," she struggled, trying to find the right word to use, "harshly towards him. Before you guys came, he was so nervous he was shaking. He couldn't even sign his name without stepping out the room to compose himself."

The woman's eyes went wide and she looked away from El uncomfortably, swallowing hard. The fact that Neal's mask had actually broken still shocked El, but she knew that that piece of information might help Sarah understand that the bravado he had undoubtedly displayed in front of her was a lie.

"I suppose I could," she said. "Go talk to him, I mean. In the– "

She was cut off by the sound of the hiss of a hermetic seal breaking. Startled, El raised her eyes up to the platform where the entrance to the base was. Sure enough, the doors were opening. Sarah leapt up from her chair, heading towards the base of the stairs, and El pushed off from the table.

Fowler had walked in first, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He acknowledged her with a tired nod as he padded down the stairs, and she just gave him a strained smile as he walked by. Her eyes were then drawn to the new arrival.

Immediately she guessed that he had served in the military at some point in his life. She recognized the same posture that some of Peter's colleagues held – tall and proud. Plus, the close-cropped hair encouraged that assumption. He looked to be in his forties and quite fit for someone his age. Probably the most prominent thing about him was the air of danger and gruffness the man exuded. But there was a certain softness in his face as he looked at his teammate at the base of the steps.

"Casey," Sarah breathed, looking relieved and more than a little anxious. He walked the rest of the way down the stairs, hefting his duffel bag higher on his shoulder.

"Walker," the man, Casey, said. His sharp eyes swept around the room, falling on her for a moment before moving back to Sarah. "Where's the faithful sidekick?"

"Bryce is– Bryce is alive."

The expression on the man's face was suddenly glacial. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Kill" and "Beckman". All El knew was that she really didn't want to be whoever this Beckman was.

It seemed like her night just got a little more interesting, and another character added to the already tangled plot. When this was all over, she vowed to burn Peter's collection of spy novels. All one hundred and fifty two of them.


	17. Judas Kiss

**AN: **Hello everyone! First off, over 200 reviews! Thank you guys so much. Seriously, even though I am writing this story just for fun, seeing a new review in my inbox never fails to make me smile. :D Secondly, I realize that this story may drag on a little, but please remember that it is a story, and I do try to tell it as best I can. For that reason, it is slow sometimes, but I really wouldn't have it any other way. So I hope you bear with me, and keep on reading. I'm on vacation now, so I may actually have a new chapter up quite soon, as I have a lot of time to do absolutely nothing. :D Now that may sound fun, but it's incredibily boring. Thank god for laptop computers! Enjoy the next installment.

**AN2: **Note the penname change so you know who I am haha.

**Warnings:** Mild violence and gore.

* * *

Chapter Sixteen – Judas Kiss

* * *

_He was sprinting down the side street, adrenaline pumping and heart racing. There was a fence up ahead, no doubt intended to block access from one side to the other. But Bryce didn't even stop, quickly shoving his gun into the back of his pants instead and throwing himself at the fence, easily scaling it. He landed, catlike, on the other side and pulled out his weapon before continuing on. There wasn't much time, if the menacing voice in his ear was anything to go by._

_"You don't know who you're dealing with here, Burke!" Carson's harsh tone spurred Bryce on even faster. "You don't know anything! So just keep your mouth shut, god damn it, before I– before I blow her brains out!"_

_"Okay, okay." Peter sounded calm, but Bryce could sense the faint tremble that indicated the man was anything but. "But can't we discuss this without pointing guns? The FBI is willing to cut you a deal if you just let her go."_

_Only one more corner before they would be in sight. Despite being in good shape, his legs were burning and every breath felt like someone was taking razor blades to his lungs and throat. His feet pounded against the pavement, but he tried to slow down when he approached the side of the building, behind which Carson was holding Peter and Kate hostage. Chuck and Sarah were still minutes out, and he had no clue where Shaw was. They had lost contact moments before._

_Dragging in lungfuls of air, he plastered his back to side of the brick building, holding his gun pointed down towards the ground. He waited for Carson to reply._

_"I'm afraid I can't do that, Burke. You see, she's part of my… insurance policy, if you will."_

_While the man was talking, Bryce slowly peeked his head around the corner, taking in the sight. The crazed man had his back to Bryce's current position. He could barely make out Kate's form in front of him, but he did have a good enough visual of her upper body to realize that her stiffness was caused by the large gun being directed at her head; the silver of it glinted in the sunlight that filtered into the alley from above. Peter was standing a ways ahead of Carson, facing Bryce. He had his hands on top of his head, apparently having lost his sidearm at some point._

_When Bryce stuck his head around the corner, Peter had caught the movement and his eyes flickered over to meet his. Even with the distance between them, Bryce saw the panic and desperation in the gaze. He swallowed hard._

_However, the subtle change in Peter's attention must have caught Carson's attention, because suddenly Bryce was staring into the man's crazed blue eyes. Quickly, he ducked back behind the corner just in time, as three loud cracks echoed in the space, followed by flying brickwork really close to where his head had been moments before._

_"Larkin! I know you're there!" Bryce hurriedly put his gun in the back of his pants again and pulled the back of his black shirt over the top of it to conceal it somewhat. "Come out and face me!"_

_Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Bryce steeled himself. He pushed off from the wall and went around the corner, hands already raised into a position of surrender._

_Carson's eyes were fixed on his as he walked closer, edging around the man so that he faced him as he walked backwards toward Peter. The man's grip on Kate visibly tightened as he shoved the gun further under her chin, causing her to whimper a little, and he clenched his jaw as Carson grinned smugly at her pained reaction._

_"What more do you want from me?" he asked, spreading his arms out._

_"I want you dead. That enough of an answer?"_

_Bryce finally let himself look at Kate. While on the surface she seemed frightened, her blue eyes were like sparkling diamonds as she stared at him – hard and clear. He knew what he would have to do._

_"It's a perfect answer. Because I completely agree with it."_

_And with that he moved. Time seemed to slow. His right hand flew to the back of his pants and he got a hand on the gun's grip before pulling it out and simultaneously flicking off the safety as he brought it around. Carson's eyes flickered from Kate's calm face to Bryce's movements and he must have realized he would be dead soon, because his eyes widened. Without hesitation, Bryce lined up the shot and squeezed the trigger, the resulting gunshot reverberating in the alley loudly._

_Time sped up again as red exploded from Carson's head, a shower of blood and gore splattered unpleasantly against the brick wall behind the man as it spread out from the area of impact. He was almost dead before he hit the ground. The important part was that Kate was free._

_Lowering the gun, which was smoking slightly, he met her eyes. Moments later he found himself with an armful of beautiful woman. She gripped his shirt in her hands and he wrapped his arms, carefully keeping the gun pointed away, around her tightly. He let out a relieved sigh and rested his head on top of hers. No words were spoken._

_Which wasn't right. He could feel and see her mouth moving, but he couldn't hear her. It was suddenly eerily silent._

_A crack, much louder than the one from his handgun earlier, pierced the silence, and he recognized it immediately. Releasing Kate, he spun around just in time to watch Peter, who had been standing behind them, forgotten, go down in a heap. Even from a distance, he recognized the sight of blood staining clothing when it shouldn't be, and his friend's chest seemed to quiver before falling still. He screamed._

_"PETER! NO!" As he started running for the wounded man, the ground in front of him suddenly exploded as multiple rounds fired from above barely missed him. The spy in him realized this was no doubt Carson's 'insurance policy', and the friend in him realized that he was pinned down, unable to go forward._

_Kate's strong hand latched on to his upper arm and shook him, struggling to pull him back towards cover. He was having none of it, though, eyes only for Peter lying in the dirt, a growing puddle of blood beneath his still form. This was all his fault. Oh god, this was all his fault. Peter was dead because of him–_

_"Let me go! Let me go, Kate! PETER!" Another hail of gunfire forced him and Kate to dive further down the alley, away from Peter. He scrambled to his feet when the barrage momentarily stopped, and lunged towards the man. However, Kate caught him again and pulled him back to the ground._

_"Bryce? Bryce!" He was too busy struggling to escape her hold to notice that something was off with her voice. "Bryce! Come on, buddy! Stop!"_

_Still not paying attention to anything other than Peter, he jerked himself out of her abnormally tight grip and stumbled up, tripping once before making it to his feet. At this point, he didn't care. He just had to make it to Peter._

_"Bryce! BRYCE!"_

_He didn't even make it three steps before something slammed into his chest. Almost losing his footing as pain ripped through his body, he staggered a few more paces before falling to his knees. Black spots danced in his vision, and he shook his head trying to get rid of them. He tried to take a deep breath, but it was suddenly more difficult. It felt like something was sitting on his chest; the pressure was becoming unbearable. What was causing it?_

_Glancing down, he saw that his shirt looked oddly wet. He sluggishly brought a hand up and placed it on the fabric, then pulled it away. In an instant he realized what had happened. Shining wetly on his hand was blood. The red was a deep contrast to his surroundings, which were slowly shifting more grayscale as the color leached out of everything but the blood. He blinked, mildly surprised that he hadn't recognized the feeling of being shot._

_The world tilted suddenly, and he found himself on his back, staring up at the white sky. Blearily, he glanced towards the building where he guessed the shooter had been. Surprise shot through him as he saw a form standing in plain sight. Lazily leaning out a window, handgun dangling precariously from his hand, was himself._

_Well, a twisted version of himself. The figure's hair was slicked back, and he was wearing all black. It looked like an outfit a spy would wear. It looked like something he would wear. Even from this distance he could feel the cold grey gaze on his face, judging him._

_He opened his mouth to say something, but instead started choking as he tried to breathe in and found that he couldn't. Coughing, he turned onto his side, trying to get rid of the obstruction in his airway. Flecks of blood soon stained the dirt near him, and he ruthlessly fought the urge to vomit from the pain the movement caused and the horrendous taste of blood in his mouth. He just lay there on his side, body limp, struggling to draw breath._

_"BRYCE!"_

_The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Darkness was beginning to creep into the corners of his vision. He kept his gaze on himself in the window, unable to look away. Even from this distance he recognized the blank expression, like he was simply looking into a mirror. The doppelganger brought up the weapon, steadily aiming it at him down below._

_"No," he whispered raggedly, knowing what was coming and powerless to stop it. "Please– "_

_A final gunshot rang through out the alley, and the last thing Bryce saw was his own impassive face. Blackness was quickly claiming him as his chest exploded in agony, but before it could completely, he thought he heard a final scream._

_"BRY-"_

* * *

"-CE!"

He jerked up in bed, narrowly avoiding smashing his head into that of the person who was hovering over him. Automatically, he slid a hand underneath his pillow in search of his handgun, but not finding it, he panicked. Disoriented, he was going to lash out, but before he could his hands were quickly pinned to the bed.

"Bryce! Hey! Hey, it's okay. Just calm down. It was only a dream."

The voice caused him to pause his frantic movements, and he blearily peered up at the man standing over him.

"Chuck?" he croaked. "What are– where am I?"

Seemingly satisfied that Neal wasn't moving any time soon, Chuck had released his wrists. It had allowed him to get a good look at the room, and, recognizing the med wing, he turned confused eyes to the man.

"The med wing. What's the last thing you remember?" Chuck looked hesitant for some reason, and Neal's eyes trailed him as he moved to sit in a chair next to the bed that looked like it had been slept in. Now that he was a little more coherent, he noticed that Chuck himself appeared as sleepy as him.

He racked his brains, trying to remember how he had gotten there. Memories from last night sluggishly washed over him, from his painful greeting with Sarah to her running off.

"Sarah," he said, his eyes widening and he moved to get up, but he fell back into the bed with a pained hiss as his whole body protested.

"Whoa." Chuck was suddenly hovering over him, gently pushing him to lie down. "I wouldn't move so fast if I were you."

"But I need to– " His hands clenched the bed sheets and he bit his lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, as the back of his head touched the pillow. Apparently, the injury was still extremely sensitive and painful to the touch. "I need to apologize."

"You'll have plenty of time for that later." He watched as Chuck turned around for a moment, fiddling with something on a tray, before turning back and holding out a glass of water and plastic cup with what he recognized as Tylenol jingling inside. "First, I figured you might want something to help take the edge off. You're looking a little, ah, bruised."

Fully awake now, Neal could safely say that he felt more than bruised. He felt broken. He knew without looking that his back was a mass of black and blue; the skin tugging painfully when he moved and indicating he probably had a few healing cuts to deal with also. Taking a guess, he figured that his neck looked much the same, but with another mark in the form of handprints. There was a lingering tightness in that area, and it was a little more difficult than normal to get his words out. He hated being choked.

The worst injuries were contained to his head, though. The whole left side of his face ached from getting hit two too many times, and his jaw moved a little too stiffly. Even with the soft pillow, the back of his head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and he had to quell a building nausea. He recognized the symptoms of a concussion from experience. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to get a hold of his drifting thoughts.

"Or I can set up an IV," Chuck said softly. "If you'd prefer. And get you some Zofran, if your nausea is bad."

Neal wondered how Chuck knew what to give him, but then remembered. The Intersect. If they wanted, they could become doctors in an instant. Slowly, he pushed himself back into a sitting position and quietly accepted the pills and water before knocking them back and washing them down. It would take a while for them to kick in, which no doubt was the idea.

"Thank you."

Chuck shrugged it off, then set the empty cups on the tray and moved back to the chair. Neal eyed him warily as the man settled. Brown eyes met grey, and they just stared at each other for a moment; then Chuck broke first, turning his eyes to his folded hands in his lap.

"Listen, I'm sorry about, you know." He motioned to his face, and Neal was confused for a moment before he realized Chuck meant hitting him.

"It was nothing I didn't deserve," he muttered, looking away from the man, uncomfortable. "I shouldn't have surprised you like that."

"So, why did you?" The man didn't sound upset, just curious. And a little shocked. Neal had a feeling that this wasn't exactly how Chuck thought he'd act around him. Then again, Chuck was probably still in shock over him being alive in general.

"It wasn't– I wanted to just get it over with, I suppose." The ceiling drew his gaze, and he winced as a jolt of pain shot through his head. He brought a hand up and scrubbed his eyes tiredly. "And I wanted to be the one to tell you."

"You mean show. There wasn't much telling going on."

"I told you my name. That was enough."

"Sure, after you showed your face. I think this was your best entrance yet." Chuck looked amused. But his expression shifted quickly into a more serious one. "What… would you like me to call you? Neal?"

"I'd prefer it." He glanced at Chuck. "But Bryce is okay, too. For now."

"I promise I'll try to remember that," Chuck said, sounding sincere. An awkward silence filled the room until the man continued, "It was rather brilliant of you to encode the name into the Intersect like that."

He had to take a moment and figure out what that meant, then he realized he meant Neal Caffrey. "Yes, well, Beckman wanted it. In case something went bad, I guess."

"But how would that work?" The man frowned at Neal in confusion. "If you, you know…"

"Died?" For some reason the word tasted bitter on his tongue. "Voice recognition was only one of the keys. It had to be my voice saying that name specifically for the information to decrypt itself."

"So I wouldn't flash if the name came up during a mission." Neal nodded, and Chuck sighed. "I'm not sure what I would have done if I had found out from anyone other than you, to be honest."

"You probably would have handled it better than Dan." He couldn't contain a snort, although it hurt him more than it was probably worth. "He accidentally lit himself on fire with that lighter of his."

Chuck gave him an incredulous look before bursting into laughter. The corners of Neal's mouth turned up, but he refrained from joining in. Wiping tears from his eyes, Chuck said in-between giggles, "Sarah kept telling him he'd do that one day. She's been trying to get him to get rid of that thing for the longest time. He's stubborn, though. As you, well, probably know."

He wasn't laughing anymore, and the mood turned serious again. Neal wished the pain medicine would kick in so that they didn't have to talk here. It made him feel oddly vulnerable, lying in the bed and talking about this. He had nothing to hide behind.

"I suppose I do," Neal said quietly, shifting his eyes back to his friend's. "Listen, Chuck. I'm… so sorry."

Chuck bit his lip and turned his head away, obviously conflicted. He knew he didn't have to elaborate on just what he was sorry for. After a moment, brown eyes slanted back to his and he waited.

"When I first came down here," Chuck took a deep breath as if steeling himself, "I wasn't sure how to act – if I should be mad at you, or mad at the situation. I wasn't sure how to act around you. I mean, my God. The last time I saw you, you died in front of me. That's not something that's just easily forgotten, even after almost five years. It was even worse for Sarah. She didn't get to say goodbye."

Neal swallowed tightly, unsure of what to do or say to that. Chuck went on, idly picking at a loose thread in the chair he was sitting in.

"She'd never admit it, but after the debriefings that night, she just completely broke down. It wasn't– " Chuck ripped the thread out, "it wasn't something I want to see ever again. You need to understand that it will take some time for her to get used to seeing you again. To get used to the idea that you're alive. She isn't happy that you lied these past years. At first I think she saw it as a big betrayal, but I think she understands it to some extent now. We talked."

"Should I be saying thank you?" It came out before he could stop it, and he immediately felt the urge to take it back. "Sorry, I shouldn't have– that didn't come out right."

"Bryce Larkin saying sorry. Twice." Chuck looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head and laughing lightly. "I never thought I'd see the day."

"Chuck," Neal said, sounding more desperate then he wanted to and drawing the man's attention. "I'm not… Bryce anymore. It's– I'm– " Grasping for straws, he finally just said lamely, "I've changed."

"I know," Chuck said simply. "Look, I'm not sure what to think of this yet. I'm still processing it. But just– just listen." He moved the chair closer to Neal's bed, and for a moment he legitimately thought the man was going to take his hand. But he just leaned closer. "I know you're struggling with this, but you probably handled it better than I would have. Just– you don't ever have to worry about pretending to be something you're not in front of me. If I've learned anything in the past few years, it's that it's easy to lose yourself in your work. This work, especially."

"Chuck, I– " Neal swallowed thickly, completely shocked. He looked away and whispered, "Why are you doing this?"

"Because, despite how many reasons why I should hate you for everything you've ever done, which would take forever to list and you know it," Chuck added, "I still… care about you."

The room was silent. Neal wasn't sure how to feel about that confession. "How did you– when did you, um, arrive at that conclusion?"

"When you died. In front of me. The fact that it was faked doesn't matter," Chuck said sharply, cutting off Neal before he could speak up. "I don't really care how self-preserving or low you think that might have been. You would have died, for real, if you hadn't. The Ring would have killed you. Be thankful you got this second chance, and use it to your advantage."

"You should hate me."

"But I don't. If I'm going to work with you, I can't. I've accepted what's happened. The question here is whether or not you have. I'm giving you a second chance here, Bryce. We can just start over. Whether you choose to put aside your own feelings, well, that's your choice."

* * *

Some employees were the worst kind of people, and he wasn't just thinking of Aaron Carson's recent failings. While they tended to enjoy their jobs a little too much, they were incompetent to an almost ridiculous degree. He would have had them all killed, as criminals like them should be, but as much as it pained him to admit it, it was hard to find those in the intelligence business who would be willing to work for him in a certain _capacity_.

Of course, there were the always the agents who were dissatisfied with how their agencies were run. Too much bureaucracy, not enough action. Too much tradition, not enough change. He'd heard it many, many times before. He'd capitalized on it. Given them a purpose, other than sitting at a desk and wasting away to become fat and lazy.

He turned those agents against their own agencies without them even realizing it, turning them into pawns for his psychological game of chess. Slowly, and somewhat quietly, he was creating an agency of his own, filled with brilliant, driven, and creative individuals. People who wanted to protect and serve their country, not wrap it in red tape and let a select few who were letting the United States slip behind within the intelligence world hold the scissors.

The problems came when more unsavory missions came up. Sure, a spy's morals weren't exactly white, but they weren't black either. He needed someone to do his dirty work, but he really did hate having to resort to hiring criminals. It infuriated him to no end.

He was grateful in one aspect, though. He never would have met Katelyn if it hadn't been for his need to utilize the criminal underworld. Speaking of…

"Are you ready to go, Thomas?" His fiancée's melodic voice drifted into the bathroom from the bedroom. "The dinner is in an hour and the General _requested_ that you arrive early. More like demanded, arrogant bitch. Why you put up with her, I'll never understand."

He sneered at the mention of the woman, and his reflection in the mirror mimicked him. Adjusting his cufflinks, he glanced to the side as Katelyn came into the bathroom. He was unable to stop his sneer from transforming into a smile. She looked gorgeous.

The bodice of her silvery strapless cocktail dress hugged her frame perfectly, while the short, strategically layered bottom accentuated her shapely legs. The strappy heels helped even more. He was glad she had decided on the silver; it brought out the blue in her eyes beautifully. Her dark hair hung loose about her bare shoulders, and he really just wanted to brush it aside and explore. She must have noticed how his attention had shifted, and his clear blue eyes became stormier as they met hers.

Smirking at their reflections in the mirror, she laid a delicate hand on his shoulder and trailed it up to the back of his neck before running her fingers through his dark hair and placing a lingering kiss to his cheek.

"Whoa. Calm down there, tiger," she purred into his ear, seemingly pleased with his reaction to her outfit. "That'll have to wait till _after_ the fun." Grinning, she slapped him on the butt and whirled away, laughing, before he could catch her. She stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb.

"If you consider dining with Diane Beckman fun," he said, turning around and trying to look disgusted but failing, "then I'm not sure I want to associate with you anymore, darling. It's a betrayal I'm not quite sure that I can take."

She rolled her eyes and went to respond, but her phone rang in the other room and she glanced backwards, startled. Letting out a sigh, she shot back loudly as she walked out of the bathroom, "Well, that's too bad, isn't it?"

He shook his head in exasperation and amusement, took one last look into the mirror, and muttered to himself as he walked out of the room, "No, it most certainly isn't."


	18. Need to Know

**AN: **Not much to say here, other than this chapter was really, really fun to write. Hope you guys like it! Thanks to AwesomeQueenoftheLab for her beta work :D

* * *

Chapter Seventeen - Need to Know

* * *

The hallways were quiet as Neal and Chuck slowly made their way towards the kitchen. According to Chuck, both teams were currently having breakfast and waiting for him. He would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous.

Casting his friend a side ways glance, he smiled tentatively, and received one in return. It made his chest ache a little to see the familiar Chuck Bartowski grin, and not for the first time that morning he wondered what he had done to deserve it.

Second chances were nice, but they were just that_—second_ chances. The term implied that he hadn't done something right the first time, and that irked him. Failure was a word that wasn't really in his vocabulary, and he had failed to complete his mission like he should have.

He understood what Chuck had been trying to tell him. Really, he did. But it was hard for him to accept failure. He had analyzed and replayed the scene in the clinic that started it all so many times that his words were burned into his brain. Permanently etched. Unable to be formatted away. If he just hadn't gone and listened to his gut, which had told him that maybe it wasn't a good idea to break into a building, then everything would have been okay. Peter wouldn't have found out so soon. More importantly, Chuck and Sarah wouldn't have.

But then again, he wasn't sure how true that was. From what Shaw had told him, it had sounded like they had already been considering his help. His own team had been making the connections to Carson and his art, and Beckman had no doubt seen it as an opportunity. Then there was also something that Carson had said when they had confronted him. The implications hadn't really registered, or made much sense, last night; however, the feeling of nervousness he got thinking about them now didn't bode well.

According to him, the FBI had provided some kind of cover to smuggle the painting out. If anything, the increased scrutiny of the gallery should have done the complete opposite. Unless there was inside help, which—while a troubling thought—wasn't exactly new information to Neal. He knew there were Ring agents operating within the FBI. It was partly the reason why he had been assigned to work under that agency in particular.

The CIA didn't exactly have license to operate domestically. A majority of their work took place dealing with foreign affairs, which wasn't really of interest to the Ring. Why topple and reform foreign governments when the United States' own government needed to be 'reformed' so badly? They wanted to 'improve' the US's position in the world, and to do that they would have to work internally. The agency with the most focus in that area was the FBI, so it made sense that the Ring would recruit heavily within the agency.

He had come across a few Ring agents so far while working with Peter at the White Collar Unit. Some of them he flashed on. Others, well, he had taken educated guesses—then drugged them and interrogated them to be sure. If it was one thing that the FBI training lacked, it was how to resist interrogation. The Ring trained some people, of course, but generally only those who lacked proper skills with a handgun or weapon, and generally only in those areas.

At his estimates there were over three thousand Ring agents within the FBI, but only about five hundred or so who were not involved in law enforcement of any kind. Sure, some of those five hundred people were killers who knew their way around an Uzi, but others were lawyers, doctors, and scientists. Not exactly James Bond material. Carson was a perfect example of that.

Which bought him back to his current unease. He had a strong feeling that Carson had accidentally hinted at working with someone within the New York field office—someone who most likely knew about the White Collar Unit getting the case. So it was likely that it was an agent within the Unit itself. It could be one of the professional staff also, but without agent status that could have been hard to pull off. Certain clearances were required for cases, and not all the professional staff had them. He'd have to make a list later that afternoon and run it by Peter, then crosscheck it with names on the watchlist—

"—al! Hey. Neal." Fingers were snapped in front of his face, literally snapping him out of his thoughts. Alarmed, he realized they were standing in front of the kitchen door, just far enough away that the proximity sensors didn't catch them. He glanced at Chuck and was met with a knowing grin. "You ready to make another famous Bryce Larkin entrance? Or maybe I should call it a Neal Caffrey entrance now." He looked like he was pondering the question quite seriously, and Neal frowned. "I'm not quite sure how Neal… acts."

Rolling his eyes, Neal said lowly so that the group in the room wouldn't hear them, "I'm still the same person, Chuck. I just don't tend to enter guns blazing anymore."

"Right." There was a pause as they both stared at the door, then Chuck spoke. "What are you waiting for, then?"

"I'm wondering if I should have put on a bulletproof vest."

* * *

Sarah sat at the table, picking morosely at her egg white omelet. Elizabeth, who she had found out was an excellent cook, had been overjoyed at the prospect of cooking in a state-of-the-art kitchen that was stocked rather well.

Then again, from memories of a similar lockdown situation in Castle, Sarah herself really did like the kitchens. She fondly remembered making brownies with Chuck while they waited to be cleared, which eventually had taken almost a week. She also fondly remembered the horrified look on Shaw's face when he walked in on them after they had gotten more chocolate on themselves than in the pan, and thus gotten a little… distracted.

Now she frowned at her plate, and her eyes flickered over to Shaw. He was seated at the end of large table with Casey, their voices only a murmur in the background. The sling supporting his bandaged arm reminded her of the first time she had met him, years ago. Of course, this time he had _been_ shot, instead of the one doing the shooting—at himself.

While he looked a little pale (probably from blood loss) and tired (if the bags under his eyes were any indication), he wasn't acting any differently. She didn't know exactly what she was expecting from him, though. Bryce being alive hadn't been an earth-shattering revelation for him, considering he had most likely found out about it a few days before they did and had time to assimilate it. And Casey… was, well, Casey. Almost nothing fazed that man.

Scanning the room, her attention shifted to FBI Agent Burke. He looked a lot like how she felt—lost, confused, angry, hurt, frustrated. She felt more of a connection to him than anyone in the room, and she hadn't even talked to him yet. For some reason, though, she really, really wanted to just go over and start a conversation—about Bryce. Neal. Whatever the hell his name was now.

She wanted to know everything there was to know about the man who had Bryce's face. She wanted to know how he dressed, how he walked, talked, if he still liked his coffee with more sugar than coffee in it. Never had she wanted to understand someone more than Bryce Larkin as he was now.

And never had she wanted to hate someone more than Bryce Larkin as he was now, alive. However, after talking with Chuck, and just thinking, she couldn't find it in herself to summon anything resembling it. She knew she had every right to hate him, he had faked his death—which wasn't something that could be taken lightly—but all she really felt was empathy towards him. It was difficult to even fathom what he must have gone through. How he must have felt.

Talking with Elizabeth had helped a lot more than she thought it would. Strangely, the woman reminded her of Ellie. Maybe it was the warm, open personality she projected. Since Ellie had found out about their real work, there had been many a night spent talking over a glass of red wine. It was nice to have another woman to talk to sometimes, as being the only woman on the team was not always a blast. Thinking back, the only time she ever really worked with women as a team was the Omaha Project, and well, she hadn't seen Kate or Brittney in a long time now.

The sound of the kitchen doors opening drew the attention of everyone in the room, and she looked up. Chuck strode in first, giving her a strained smile. She gave him one in return, but it fell from her face when she caught sight of the man behind him. Bryce.

"Oh my god," she whispered, the sound cutting through the thick silence. She was shocked.

He certainly looked like he was dead. His skin was a pasty white, and the purpling bruises on the side of his face along with the ones peeking out from under his white dress-shirt's collar stood out in stark contrast. Bruising under his eyes told her that he obviously didn't get a very good night's rest, and she noticed with slight concern that he was limping a little as he walked into the quiet room and paused.

He coolly met all of their eyes, lingering more on her and Peter, before saying, "I trust all of you are no doubt eager to have all of your questions answered, but you'll pardon me if I get something to eat first. The official briefing is being held at ten, to include Beckman. I'm sure you guys want explanations," he looked more towards Sarah and Peter at that, "and I promise you'll get them."

Casey grunted, going back to his meal while an amused Shaw looked on. Sarah watched him give Bryce a tired grin, and she in turn nodded when the man's cool gaze landed on her.

"Great." He smiled at both of them, looking genuine about it, and walked over to the bar where Peter and El were. "I see you found the kitchen, El. Not to shabby, is it?"

Sarah didn't catch the woman's response, as her husband sat down with a relieved sigh in front of her, drawing her attention away.

"Long night?" she asked Chuck, scrutinizing his appearance. Oddly, he didn't look nearly as tired as Bryce. He must have gotten some sleep, then. She would have joined him in the medical wing, but she had really wanted to just be alone. And he had understood completely. Still, it had been… different sleeping alone.

"You could say that," he muttered, reaching over and snatching a piece of buttered toast from her plate. He munched on it and glanced sideways towards Bryce, who had his back turned to them. "Not as long as his, though. I felt horrible waking him for those damn concussion checks."

"How was he?"

He shot her a considering look. "Mentally? Or physically?"

"Both," she said, her eyes drawn to the man they were discussing. He was chatting with Elizabeth as if nothing had changed, while Peter was silently gaping at the two of them. It would have been a humorous picture if Sarah hadn't felt like doing the same thing Peter was.

"Well," he said, taking a quick bite of toast, "physically, mostly bumps and bruises. His concussion wasn't as bad as Shaw originally thought it might be. It's mostly just exhaustion. I don't think he's stopped going since," he paused, trying to come up with a guess, "well, ever. But," he lowered his voice a little so that she had to strain across the table to catch hear him, "his mental state isn't so… great."

"I wasn't expecting it would be," she murmured, and Chuck looked back at her. His brown eyes sparkled with what she identified as worry, and her heart skipped a beat. "How bad— how bad is it?"

"The nightmares are pretty violent," he said, reluctantly setting the half-eaten toast back on her plate so he could talk. He brushed the crumbs left behind away and leaned back in his chair and stared at the table, fingers tapping lightly, as he was seemingly lost in thought. "It took me… longer than it should have to wake him this morning. I was afraid he was going to hurt himself, he was thrashing a lot."

Sarah winced, forming a mental image for the scene. Nightmares were something almost all agents had to deal with at one point. Their jobs sometimes dictated that they would see and do horrible things, and it was just inevitable. She still had them occasionally, and she absently rubbed the right side of her chest in remembrance of something she'd rather not be remembering. Or thinking about. Quickly, she changed the subject.

"Did he accept your, ah, proposition?" She was at a loss as to what to call his whole 'Operation Second Chance' thing, but she frowned as he shook his head ruefully.

"I'm not sure. I think he wants to talk to you before he, you know, really thinks about it. He needs proof that we forgave him from more than me. Just don't… don't knock his lights out this time. I think it's more sincere that way. Maybe."

* * *

"So it is true," Casey said, beadily eyeing Bryce, who was talking with the FBI agent and Elizabeth, over his cup of black coffee. Shaw glanced up from his plate of food at him, then shot the newcomer a glance himself. He shrugged before turning back to his food.

"You didn't believe me?" the man asked in-between bites. Casey's eyes drifted back to him and he grunted. It was the 'You are an idiot, why the fuck would you ask that when you know the damn answer already' grunt. Specially reserved for Shaw. "Right, forget I asked," he muttered, and Casey had to restrain a grin.

"I won't," he said, taking a sip of his coffee and ignoring the long suffering look Shaw shot him. "He up to this? The idiot blew the op once, you sure he won't do the same again?"

Shaw's face dropped into a frown. "_That_ was different. He had as much control over that situation as I do over you. Which, well, isn't much. But that's not the point," he rushed to add when Casey gave him a violent look. He'd perfected that one over the years, too. "We didn't know for a fact that Carson would have a whole government database in his gallery."

"You did assume," he pointed out. "Why the hell didn't she just send in the strike team and take care of it?"

"You and I both know we don't have _proof_," Shaw said, and Casey snorted.

"Never stopped us before."

* * *

"Where's Jones and Fowler?" Neal inquired quietly, sliding onto one of the barstools with a barely concealed wince.

El gave him a smile that was tinged with concern and fiddled with the stove for a moment. "Last I heard, walking the dog." Pausing to let that mental image sink in, she continued, "Can I make you something? Eggs? Oatmeal? Toast? The kitchen is pretty stocked."

Peter thought for a moment that Neal was going to decline, but he must have caught the dangerous look in El's eyes and changed his mind.

"If you wouldn't mind, El. Oatmeal sounds fine. With a little cinnamon, please. Thank you."

El nodded, shooting Peter a glance and subtly motioning with her eyes towards Neal, who was making himself a cup of coffee. He knew she wanted them to talk, but he wasn't so sure he wanted to do it right here, right now. Yet he also knew that they had to have this conversation, because he _needed to know, damn it._

"You look like crap."

Neal gave him a considering look over his cup of coffee, took a sip, then shrugged, carefully setting the cup on the counter. "Feel a bit like crap, so I figure I probably look like it. No sense in hiding anything from you now, is there?"

Narrowing his eyes, Peter asked, "What do you mean?" However as soon as he asked, he realized he already knew the answer just by looking at the man sitting next to him. This was a stripped-down version of a man he always saw as impeccable. The bruises and tired eyes and five o'clock shadow wasn't that same person. Wasn't Neal Caffrey. It was quite a sight to see.

"You're going to learn a lot about me today, Peter. More than you probably will be comfortable with. More than I'm comfortable with." Neal picked up a table knife that had been lying on the counter and began to twirl it expertly, as if to emphasize his point. Peter's eyes followed the smooth movements and tried to connect them to the man, but was having a hard time. "But I'm not going to hide anything from you," he put the knife back down, and leaned towards him, "because you deserve the truth. Anything less wouldn't be fair to you or me."

There was a moment of silence between them, and Peter shifted on his barstool, looking away from the man's intense stare. He wasn't sure if he should feel pleased that his questions would get answers or if he was nervous about hearing those answers. The CIA didn't exactly have the cleanest reputation, and their agents often more so. Neal… Bryce being one of them just didn't seem quite right.

"Why did you join?" He blurted out, startling Neal with the question. If he would start anywhere, the beginning seemed as good as any place.

The man sighed, looking away, and took another sip of his coffee. After what seemed like a moment of contemplation, he spoke. "For a lot of reasons. I was in college at the time—"

"Stanford?" Peter remembered the college being mentioned by the man while drugged, so he took an educated guess.

The corner of Neal's mouth twitched up, and he nodded, "Go Cards. But yeah. I was an engineer major, actually—computer engineering," he elaborated when he saw Peter open his mouth to ask. "Minored in psychology. It was an odd combination, but both fascinated me enough that I wanted to study them together. Got a full ride for gymnastics and track, too. Not that I needed it; my parents were more than willing to pay for everything."

"Where did you grow up?" Peter was curious now, and he wasn't an FBI agent for nothing. He was in investigation mode, and he wanted to know as much as he could. The FBI literally knew nothing about the man in front of him, and while this wasn't Neal Caffrey's past, that didn't mean it wasn't important to him.

Neal shot him a strangely weary lingering glance, then turned and gave El a small smile when she placed a bowl of oatmeal in front of him, muttering, "Thanks, El. Ah, Connecticut. A small town that had nothing behind the name. I was happy to be gone."

The man wasn't saying something, and Peter hated to prod, but he had to know. "And your family?"

Neal froze in the act of picking up his spoon, back stiffening, face shutting down. Peter hurried to take the question back because it looked like he wanted to kill someone. The expression oddly fit the man's face _too_ well.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have prodded. You don't have—"

"No," Neal waved him off, taking a deep breath. "No. It's okay. It's just… I haven't really talked about them in a long time," he admitted, looking pained. Giving Peter a tight smile, he took a moment then answered, "My father… owned a local boat shop with my mother. They were both big on sailing, so, you know, it made sense. My sister and I were practically raised around the ocean."

"Sister?" Peter asked in amazement, and Neal nodded, smile softening slightly.

"Penelope. Pen. She was only a year older than me."

"Was?"

Neal's face went blank, all emotion wiped clean, and resigned grey eyes met his. "Peter… when the CIA kills someone, they really kill someone. It doesn't matter if it's not true. We don't do anything half-assed. We can't. To much is at stake."

There were some implications behind that statement that Peter didn't really want to think about. But he had to. "Are you— you mean to tell me that your family thinks you've, what, died?"

"It's a long story, Peter—"

"Which I have all morning to listen to. Don't back out of this now, Neal. I get the feeling that you need to tell someone something. You've been bottling this up for too long, am I right?" At Neal's silence, he nodded, and said softer, "So, I'm listening. Talk."

Seemingly having to give his nervous hands something to do, Neal began stirring the oatmeal. Peter was thankful that the man seemed like he was really contemplating what to say, though.

"It comes back to Stanford then, I suppose." He sighed. "Like I said, I was studying to become a computer engineer. There were jobs opening everywhere, and it was a promising enough line of work. I had planned on opening my own software company. With Chuck, actually."

"You were classmates," Peter said, taking a guess. It would certainly explain the relationship between the two, which, even to him—not knowing the other CIA agent or interacting with him much yet—felt a little tense. Something had happened, and he got the bad feeling that it had been Neal's fault.

"For a while, yes," Neal said simply, and changed the subject. "But things didn't, ah, turn out. I had just started my junior year, and I was approached by one of my teachers with an opportunity. To join the CIA. And I accepted."

"Why?" he felt compelled to ask. Shaking his head incredulously, he said, "You had your future planned out for you. Surely you knew that would change things."

"Why did you join the FBI?" The question was turned on him, and he wasn't quite prepared for that. "You wanted something more than a desk job where the most challenging thing you did all day was try to decide if your earnings reports should be in Times New Roman or Arial." He looked sympathetic and understanding. "Isn't that what everyone wants? A little adventure? It's why a lot of people go into intelligence or law enforcement work. And it's something recruiting officers latch on to and manipulate potential agents with."

"What do you mean?"

"You know that you get to learn how to shoot or parachute out of planes or drive better than a NASCAR driver? You're not told that you're going to become an expert on torture techniques, the quickest ways to kill someone, become a world-class sniper, or become a target. They don't tell you that you might have to sever all ties with your family to keep them safe. You're not told that you're going to get stabbed or beaten or drugged or shot or _tortured_. But by the end of your training, you know. It's almost instinctive."

"I can't—" Peter choked, looking horrified. "Why would someone voluntarily go through that?"

"To serve my country," Neal answered seriously, then continued more sarcastically. "To use my skills for good, and not evil. Honestly, looking back, I think the last reason was a driving force behind why they recruited _me_ in the first place."

"What— what skills did you have that they'd want?" He was a little afraid of the answer.

"Other than my physical prowess," the bitter smile was back, "I was studying something that they had a rather vested interest in, if you'd call it that. Remember I said I minored in psychology?" At Peter's nod, he went on, "This'll get a little scientific here, so just bear with me as best you can." He shifted on his chair, obviously uncomfortable being in one position for too long with his injuries, and Peter felt a little sorry for him. "Well, a major curiosity within the psychology community, along with the general population, I suppose, was the idea of subliminal perception."

"You mean mind control?" Peter asked flatly, recognizing the word 'subliminal' and immediately associating it with that. But Neal shook his head, grey eyes flashing in annoyance.

"Subliminal perception isn't mind control in _any_ way," he asserted. "That's a myth. A common one, but a myth nonetheless. In reality, subliminal stimuli of any kind is basically," he vaguely waved an arm, as if search for a specific phrase, "psychological rhetoric. To try and influence the subject without them, well, realizing it."

"Psychological rhetoric. I don't know, Neal. Sounds a lot like mind control to me."

"But it's not," he insisted, meeting Peter's eyes and obviously trying to get his point across. "There's a difference between 'influence' and 'control'. Perception drives the reality, Peter."

"We aren't just talking about what you studied once anymore, are we?" It was a rhetorical question and they both knew it. He let out a long exhale and leaned forward in his chair. "And your computer studies. How'd that work in with," he absently waved a hand, "subliminal perception, or whatever the hell you called it." He still thought it sounded a lot like mind control, but wasn't going to admit it.

"You've gotten a good look at Carson's gallery. He does, well, similar work, ah, I guess you could say. But in the name of art."

"So the pictures…" he trailed off, and Neal nodded.

"At the surface you see one picture, right? You may realize that it's made of other pictures, but that's just 'cause of the size of the canvas. See, when you strip it down, you essentially get hundreds of images. It's why they're called photo mosaics. And it's also a form of subliminal perception. You might not be able to see every single picture, but it's believed that your brain has the potential to do so and can process and recall almost all of them."

"Does this happen with everyone?" If he was honest, it was a rather fascinating idea. "Or is there something like training involved…"

"It depends. You can get better with practice, I suppose." Neal looked thoughtful for a second, then went on. "The problem is, everyone learns in different ways. One person might be more of an auditory learner, so perhaps if a piece of music was played for them they'd be able to play it back without having to look at sheet music. But others are visual learners who might need to have that sheet music in front of them. The brain is wired differently for everyone. For auditory learners, processing a photo mosaic would be like trying to fit a beach ball into a jewelry box. You'd have to deflate it to change its shape so it'd fit, otherwise it's just not going to work."

"And that's what you did? Deflate it?"

"We tried. That was only one project, though. The main one, the one I really worked on, was trying to fine-tune the visual process and get more information into smaller packages."

"I still don't see why the government would be interested in that, though." Peter shook his head, puzzled. It didn't make sense, and he had a feeling that he was missing something.

"It comes back to subliminal perception," Neal explained. "While you couldn't control someone using it, they did recognize the potential behind it. With practice, we were able to encode large chunks of information into one picture. _You_ wouldn't see the information, but your brain registered it and stored it in your preconscious without you realizing."

"The last time I took a psych class was ten years ago, Neal," he said, rueful. "You're gonna have to help me out here."

"Sorry. Well, your preconscious is like… RAM, you know, on a computer. Anything stored there can be accessed quickly and fairly easily. But it also functions like a hard drive; it can store a lot. All of your memories, in fact. We found a way to, well, exploit that."

"You keep saying 'we'."

"I wasn't just an operative. In fact, I was originally employed as a scientist. But the project I was attached to spawned another, and my status within the agency changed. I had my own team, my own resources, so I needed the training."

"A team." He sounded incredulous, but couldn't help it. "How old were you?"

"I'd just become a senior." At Peter's disbelieving look, he shook his head, a small grin on his face. "I wasn't even the youngest on the team. Kate was."

"But how did you… wait. Who?" He must have heard wrong. He had to have. Kate. No, she… she couldn't possibly—

"Kate," Neal said, seemingly amused by Peter's response. "Her real name isn't even Kate Moreau. Her last name is Miller, but she uses Moreau as a primary alias. You okay there, Peter?"

No. He really wasn't. Honestly, this was getting a bit ridiculous. And starting to sound like something straight out of a spy novel. The plot was certainly as complicated. "Does everyone secretly work for the CIA? Or am I missing something?"

"I don't, honey," El chimed in, startling the two from the conversation. Only then did they realize that the room was eerily silent.

Casey and Shaw were trying—and failing rather horribly—to try and contain their obvious interest. Sarah had her hand perched under her chin, completely abandoning her food, and looking thoughtful and a little sad as she stared at Neal, who looked uncomfortable under her gaze. Chuck had turned around in his seat, giving the two previously oblivious men his full attention and not even trying to hide the fact that he was listening.

Peter didn't quite understand why they looked so intrigued by the story. He would have thought that, considering they all apparently knew Neal as Bryce, they'd have known all of this. It seemed that wasn't the case, though, and Neal seemed to realize that too.

"Maybe we should… move this to the briefing room. I can just finish my breakfast there, I suppose."


	19. Hard Truths

**AN:** I did say this wasn't abandoned. Long story short, I really apologize with the huge gap in updates. I had a pretty horrible school year, and I struggled and still do struggle with a mental health problem. Anxiety is a bitch let me tell you. I'm doing a lot better now, and was finally able to muster up the desire to start writing this again. My attention span and memory are not what it was, so I hope you all can bear with me in the upcoming chapters. I can't guarantee regular updating, but it certainly won't be this long again. At the most a month for the next chapter. Now, without further ado, the next chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen** - Hard Truths (and Yielding Lies)

* * *

"So Kate, the Kate you chased after, went on crime sprees with-"

"Allegedly."

"Went on crime sprees with," Peter continued, ignoring Neal's input, "and pined for these past few months because she went _missing_, is CIA."

"Isn't that what I said?" The glare he received caused him to continue quickly, "Kate and I are partners. Have been since this whole thing started. Even before it started. She worked with Sarah and I on a project."

"Where is she now?" Sarah asked, her expression blank, which told Neal more than enough.

"Undercover. Has been for the past year. You've all been granted limited access," he gestured to the folders in front of them, "to her assignment briefs, since you don't have the right clearances, but it'll clear some things up. I hope."

Peter looked upset still, and when he caught Neal's eye, he knew what he was going to say.

"There are still some things I don't get."

"Beckman is scheduled to go online in fifteen, but yeah, go on, sure."

"Why were you in prison?" El chipped in, and for a moment, Neal felt a wave of remorse over the fact that she was here, dealing with this. He hated bringing in civilians, since the track record wasn't great as Chuck demonstrated. This world changed you, and he vowed it wouldn't change El.

"A few reasons." He fiddled with a small bandaid on his knuckles for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "One, I on a black list. Quite a few people wanted me dead, even if I was legally already declared dead. And two, the last uh, mission, left me compromised."

"Compromised how?" Peter asked.

"Short answer? There was…an experiment. The Intersect. The government, well, my team, had been researching how to implant memories into agents. If we could do that, then maybe we could plant whole aliases and information too. Information was more important eventually. We were able to download a terabyte of data into a human test subject."

"A terabyte? That's a- a lot," Jones said, and Neal shrugged. Considering it wasn't a magnetic hard disk drive, but the human brain, yeah, it was a lot.

"We can download more now, since we figured out how to compress it further. We had to; it wasn't information in the truest sense of the word. The information acted more like a container."

"And what was inside it?"

He glanced at Peter and saw the agent looked intrigued, but still upset. It was going to be a long day.

"More information, you could say. The Intersect project, which was the name at the time, had fueled the creation of other projects, including my own. We found a way to upload, well, skill sets essentially."

"So say someone needed to drive like a professional race car driver. They'd be able to what, just upload it to their brains?" Jones asked. He looked both intrigued and freaked about that potential.

"Yeah. It was a massive undertaking. Sarah and I, along with our team, spent years working on it. We focused mainly on things a spy would need to know, and then worked from there."

"That sounds," Peter took a deep breathing, sounding unbelieving, "like it'd take up a huge amount of memory."

A rueful look crossed Neal's face at that.

"Yes, it does. Which is why we had to figure out how to compress it. We've never directly been able to study just what the human brain's capacity for retention is, and obviously everyone is different. But, it can store a lot. Good for us. There were some minor issues of course."

"Like what?" Peter seemed almost afraid to ask.

Neal leant back in his chair. "Well, there were two different projects going, mine, and Stephen Bartowski's."

"Your father, I presume?" The question was directed towards Chuck, who nodded at Peter.

"We had different goals in mind, but similar methods. Stephen's project involved encoding intel; just information. Like I said, ours was specific to skills. At first, they weren't compatible at all. We had to design a new system that integrated the two like they wanted. It took years." Neal didn't even have to say who 'they' was.

"Intersect 2.0, right?" Chuck asked.

"Exactly."

"So, wait. I thought you two met at Stanford. You didn't know each other before then?"

"No. Chuck didn't become involved with us until a few years later."

"Despite having worked with my father," Chuck said.

"Then how did that become undercover at the FBI?"

"It wasn't planned. A splinter cell intelligence group after the technology cropped up soon after we started the project. Somehow we were compromised. They called themselves The Ring. Well, that was the main group. There were splinters of that group. I dealt with a faction who called themselves Fulcrum."

"Dealt with as in, worked against, or dealt with like _dealt with_," Peter asked, and Neal could tell he was nervous about hearing the answer.

"Both. With help. Taking on something as big as this…..it's not a one man job."

"Kate helped you, didn't she?" Surprisingly it was Sarah who asked, although Neal supposed he probably shouldn't have been. She always had liked Kate, and Kate her.

He nodded. "She had to while I was in prison. She did some preliminary work, and was undercover at the NSA and DEA for a while. To see if there was any potential there for The Ring to have come in. DEA where she was clean, but she's still undercover at the NSA. Last I heard that was more of a cover than anything, since she found a private contractor heavily involved and decided to…change her mission plan."

"And then, what? You go undercover at the Bureau?" Peter asked.

"We'd already set it up. Neal Caffrey getting caught wasn't luck or skill, sorry Peter."

The man looked at a bit of a loss, and Neal felt a pang of remorse. This was perhaps what he had most dreaded telling the agent. Careers at the Bureau are made and defined by who caught who for what, and how. Peter's career had flourished in a very deliberate way. That wasn't the way it worked. Was supposed to work. And they both knew it.

"Why me? If all that was orchestrated, me being put on the case…"

"Was deliberate. We'd narrowed it down to three agents. White collar agents, just different locations. And we looked at personality and psych tests. You were the final choice. The best choice. So you were put on Neal Caffrey's case."

Peter nodded, but Neal caught a dangerous glint in his eye and winced.

"You're telling me I _wasted_ years and years of my life searching for a man who didn't exist?"

"He existed," Neal insisted. "I am Neal Caffrey. Right here. I was just…Bryce Larkin before I became Neal."

"I did. Years. Just gone," Peter abruptly stood, very obviously distressed and looking for a way out of the conversation. "I need to- I'm sorry I just…I need some air."

Neal was silent as he watched the man stumble out of El's grasp, away thru the door towards the sleeping quarters. El quickly rose and called after him, but when she was ignored, she hurried to catch up with him. He caught Fowler's eye, and jerked his head in their direction, indicating he should follow. Getting an eye roll for his troubles, he didn't say anything as Fowler complied. It was suddenly quiet again as he was left alone in the room with Shaw's team. And Jones, who looked half tempted to go after Peter, or to stay, if only to get some information.

"So….." Chuck started after a very long, quiet pause. "This all started because you got drugged?"

"I don't know," Neal said. "I guess. I get the feeling that was only a catalyst for this. Meeting. Working together. Carson. There are too many coincidences for me to feel like this wasn't a set up in sheep's clothing. I think we'd be here anyway."

"A set up orchestrated by who, though?" Sarah asked.

"Beckman," Shaw replied for Neal. The all looked over at him where he was sitting in one of the nicer computer chairs, arm up in the sling, appearing in some pain still. He was undeterred though. "It's the only explanation that I've thought of that makes sense and doesn't make my head hurt."

"Why? I can't see her working against us," Chuck said.

"He's not talking about her going against us you moron," Casey cut in, scowling at Chuck. "He's saying she created the team. For whatever reason they needed all of us. Unfortunately."

"That's correct Colonel." Despite the fact that it was a room full of spies, a few did startle as General Beckman's head appeared on the main monitor. "Team," she nodded at Chuck, Sarah, and Shaw. "Agent Larkin."

"General." There was a general muttering from the three.

Neal frowned though. "I'd prefer either Neal, or Caffrey. At least," he looked around, "in this company."

"Of course, I apologize." She didn't look apologetic at all. At least some things didn't change. "Caffrey is adequate. Now, I received _Caffrey's_ sit-rep this morning, along with Shaw's and Moreau's. Analysts are analyzing them as we speak. Moreau will be at the base in a few hours to brief you on the mission. She's heading it with my approval. You all answer to her. Understood?"

There were general mutters of assent, though Casey looked a little mutinous. No doubt he was not looking forward to answering to someone many years his junior in both age and experience. But he'd have to deal with it.

Sarah, Neal noticed, looked a bit excited, though she hid it well. He had to admit that he was looking forward to seeing Kate again himself, but in Sarah's case it had been years since she'd seen her, whereas it was only months for him. Her excitement was understandable.

"Where is Agent Burke and Mrs. Burke? You wanted them to be briefed more completely I understand Agen- sorry, Caffrey?"

Everyone in the room glanced at each other, discomfort or passiveness showing on their faces. Neal turned and fully met the General's eyes.

"They had to step out for a moment. They'll be back in a bit I'm sure," he said.

She nodded in acceptance, and continued," Good. Now then, I trust Agent Shaw has at least read the brief on the Omaha Project and is fully aware of _Caffrey_'s mission? No doubt the rest of the team has been filled in, so I'll simplify what needs to be. Any questions, Agents?"

* * *

"Peter?! Hey, Peter, honey, wait! Peter!"

El raced down the hallway as fast as she could, trying to keep up with her husband who was no doubt in the middle of a break down. She kind of was too, but she pushed aside her panic, and hurt and instead focused on what she needed to say now.

She didn't know where they were headed, and apparently neither did Peter, because they were suddenly in the middle of a large room, with mats on the ground and long wooden sticks lining the walls along with mirrors. A training area she guessed.

Peter came to a halt in the middle of the floor, and she watched as he clenched his fists, debating no doubt what he wanted to hit first. She cringed as she heard a series of bones cracking.

"Are you gonna talk, or are you gonna sulk?"

"El…" There was a tone of warning in his voice but she ignored it and stepped closer.

"What, Peter?"

"What they did-"

"Was horrible. And maybe illegal. But Peter, anger isn't going to solve anything."

"Years, El. Years of my life- _our life_-" he sounded really pained here, "just….wasted! I chased a ghost. And I don't understand _why_."

He slumped over and slid down to the floor, sitting indian-style, head in his hands. She sighed, and walked around to his front, facing him, and slid down to the floor too.

"I'll admit that I'm upset," she said, folding her hands in her lap and staring at them, so she didn't have to look at his face. "It's….a lot to think about. Why you. Why us. I think though, we have to look at it from a different perspective. If there was no Neal, that doesn't mean there wouldn't have been. There are always going to be bad guys out there for you to catch. Look, without Neal, your closure rate was average. And that's great! But with Neal, as a team, your closure rate is amazing."

"I don't doubt he was a CIA agent just for his looks." Peter looked disgruntled, but she could see a little light return to his eyes. That was good.

"True, I suppose. But Peter, think about all the cases you two solved. All the people you put in jail. Dangerous people. People that might have still been loose if Neal hadn't become your partner." She laid a hand on his knee, and he looked up at her. "I'm as mad as you are. We have a right to be. It's just…I don't think right now is the right time to be angry. Everything is so crazy and confusing, and emotions are high already, you really don't need something else on top of it. I think, maybe we should perhaps deal with this after everything else blows over. We can afford to put it aside for now."

A reluctant look settled on his face, and she could tell her words had gotten through. She'd been worried. Peter was at his breaking point, mentally and emotionally, and it hurt her to see more placed on his consciousness. She cursed Neal and the damn CIA for doing this.

It wouldn't ruin them though. As she took her husband's hand, she vowed to make sure of that. Using whatever means necessary.

* * *

_In, and out. In, and out. In, and out._ She carefully controlled her breathing as she ran down the sidewalk. Her footsteps were light and fast against the pavement, the mark of a seasoned runner. It felt good to finally get out and just run. By herself (finally after having lost her tail a mile back). Despite it being summer, it was actually chilly, so her large hoodie served a dual purpose; that of concealment and warmth. The wind still bit at her face though, and irritated, she had to brush some errant hair strands away from her face. One got caught in her sunglasses, and she rolled her eyes. She hated having it curly, but she'd been too lazy to shower last night after the dinner. Thomas had fallen asleep almost immediately upon hitting the sheets. Though his was drug induced (by her), she'd been exhausted too, and had fallen asleep shortly afterward. He'd still been asleep, like she'd expected, when she left, and would be for another five hours or so. Thankfully no one was expecting him anywhere.

She jogged along, and casually steered towards an alley. Warning signs to stay away plastered the wall and door she had to go through, but she ignored them and stepped up to the side of the door. The retinal scanner scanned her after she pushed her sunglasses down to the bridge of her nose, and a click of the door's lock indicated it was accepted. She glanced both ways down the alley, and seeing no one there, or paying attention, she slid into the hallway beyond. Stark white greeted her, and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the predictability. It practically screamed government, even though it was just a hallway. The inside had better be better than this. She'd become happily accustomed to nice things since starting her mission and she wasn't letting that go quite yet.

At the end of the doorway there was another door, this one solid metal of some kind, hermetically sealed no doubt. Beside the door there was what looked like a scanner, and it was against this that she held out her palm, watching it be read. Once it was, her retinal scan was requested on the screen, and she leaned forward, letting her right eye be scanned. Process complete, she watched as her identity was confirmed.

A floating piece of text appeared on the screen, and a bright grin crawled its way onto her face as she stared at it for a moment.

"_Welcome Agent Avalon_."

She was back.


	20. Meet the New Boss

AN: So it's later than I promised, but funnily enough I've been working on this since I posted the last chapter. Just didn't have as much time as I realized! Also, I realized that the links were down in the profiles, so my tumblr if anyone is interested is currently aryaspecter. tumblr. com. no spaces. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen** – Meet the New Boss

* * *

She stood on the steel walkway and looked down into the startled set of faces peering at her. Some she recognized, some she did not.

"Katie?"

"Sarah. It's been a while." She smiled down at the shell shocked, still gorgeous, blonde. "It's actually Kate now too, I suppose I should remind you. Covers and all that."

Walking down the metal stairs, she got a better look around the room. It was like any other CIA substation she'd been too. Boring as hell, if you didn't count the state of the art technology of course. And Sarah, who was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. She threw her arms around her and closed her eyes, leaning into her old friend.

"I missed you," Sarah whispered in her ear, squeezing her tightly, giving as good as she got from Kate.

"I missed you too." Kate gently pulled out of the hug and held her at arm's length, looking her over. "You look good."

Sarah smiled, pleased with the compliment. In turn, she took in her attire, baggy and worn hoodie, obviously well used running shoes, messy hair, and sweat beginning to gather in various places on her body. Not very attractive, but Kate didn't care and neither did she.

"So do you," she replied, laughing. Someone cleared their throat behind them, and Kate watched in amusement as Sarah shot a poisonous glare at a tall, rather lanky, man. She already knew who he was. Knew who everyone was, actually.

"You must be Agent Bartowski. I've been waiting to meet you for a long time," she said, holding out her hand and Chuck shook it after a slightly wary look at it. His grip was strong, but not as strong as hers. Without saying anything else, she spun around and let her eyes settle on the gruff looking military man.

"And Colonel John Casey. I'm a huge fan of your work." She smiled at him brightly, which seemed to throw the man off a bit. Or maybe it was the compliment. When she shook his hand, she leaned in and whispered, "Did you really take out an entire mercenary camp in Brazil using only a poison dart frog and twig?"

An amused expression twisted Casey's face, and before he let go of her hand he leaned closer and said, "Always hide your water supply."

She laughed, the sound loud in the quiet room despite the amount of people in it. Ignoring them, she spotted a tall and rather handsome looking man, who had one arm in a sling, off to the side. His dark eyes scrutinized her as she approached him and held out a hand, which he shook with his only good one.

"The man behind the team. Special Agent Shaw, nice to meet you. I've heard good things about you. All of you, actually." She turned to address everyone as a whole, and realized there were two others in the room. "Agent Fowler. And, Agent Jones? I…wasn't informed that you were involved in this operation."

The agent opened his mouth to reply, but a familiar voice behind her beat him too it.

"There've been a few….modifications to the operation."

"Neal!" She spun around, and threw herself into his arms. There was a grunt of pain from him, but he didn't let go, only tightened his hold on her.

"Kate." The relief in his voice was palpable. He drew back after a moment and held her at arm's length, grey eyes scanning her form. "You look, well, sporty."

There was a teasing lilt to his voice that made her laugh, and he smiled when he saw it. God, it had been a long time since she'd seen that. It'd been a long time since she'd seen _him_, and she looked closely at him too.

The gauntness around his face and eyes was something she'd seen before on him, and hoped never to again. He looked well rested, though still seemed a little spaced out. Not quite the usual Neal (she had an easier time referring to him as that now), but at least he was alive. She knew Aaron Carson, and while he wasn't the best The Ring had to offer, not by a long shot, he was determined and angry. The last part was the most dangerous. It made him all the more unpredictable.

"Don't I?" she asked, grinning back, and feeling pleased when she saw a bit of light return to his face. "Are we ready to start now then? I can't imagine who else….." She trailed off in surprised silence when she saw who walked through the doors behind Neal. "I didn't…."

"As Jones can attest to, there've been a few, uh, last minute additions." Neal awkwardly ran a hand through his hair and gestured to Peter and Elizabeth Burke behind him.

"Rather reluctant additions," Elizabeth said, coming over to her and holding out a hand, which Kate took. "But additions, none the less."

"Well, the more the merrier…I suppose." She turned to Peter and said, "Look, about that gun-"

"Don't." He held up a hand that stopped her in her tracks. "Neal told me some things, reluctantly, but he still told me. You thought I was Ring, and I don't blame you for that. You were just doing your job. I just wished you two'd told me earlier. But I understand why now."

She was at a bit of a loss, so she just cautiously nodded. "Good…I'm glad. I know how much Neal hated lying to you." She glanced at him and he shot her a warning look, which she ignored. "It wasn't easy. I hope the transition is as smooth as possible."

"It'll have to be for this to work," Neal said, looking grave. He understood the implications of what she said. They had to work together, as a team. Or it would be impossible. He knew she was right. But it was still hard to realize that she knew. Spies, particularly ones like Bryce Larkin, were used to working alone, or with a small team.

She addressed the room as a whole. "Now, as you are all aware, I am the team leader for this mission. I expect all decisions to be differed to me, although you can go to your own team leader first, and then they can report to me. As long as I'm in the know. More information will be in the mission briefs. Wherever they are. You have until tonight to read them."

"Assigning homework on the first day?" Chuck asked, and she had to smile at that.

"You bet your pretty little ass I am."

"But what about us?" Peter asked her, gesturing to Neal and Jones. "The Bureau is expecting us to go in. We can't just throw the job aside. And there's no way I'm leaving El alone. What if Carson is watching the house?"

"Well, you go back. You, Neal, and Jones are clear to go back and work the case from the FBI's angle. We're taking Daniel out of the game though, sorry," she addressed the injured man, who shrugged, "and sending in Chuck and Sarah. Covers and stuff are in the briefs, which probably weren't sent yet. You two will be posing as Department of Homeland Security agents, not a huge stretch from CIA, but considering we want to work _with_ the FBI this time, and we can't technically work domestically…."

"What about Elizabeth?" The question came from Sarah.

"Fowler's team will handle her protection detail. They were our backup, and I trust them."

"Enough with my wife's life?" She met Peter's hard stare with one of her own.

"I personally vetted for each of those men. I know they have my back, and they'd rather die than have one of their charges die under their watch. So yes, Burke, enough with Elizabeth's life. If you don't like it, well then, by all means, let me make some popcorn before you tell her she needs to stay in an underground bunker for the next two weeks, cause it'll be very entertaining to see you get your ass handed to you by your wife."

He gave her a nasty look, then his wife a nervous one. It was clear that El was going to protest being locked away, so he just nodded a weary acceptance.

"Fine, just… fine. I barely know you, and my only impressions aren't good considering you held me at gunpoint last time-"

"Honest mistake," she muttered.

"- but if Neal trusts you, I'll try to put aside my unease. For now. But if you do something to challenge that…" he trailed off, a threatening tone to his voice. She raised her hands in defense.

"Got it. Don't fuck up."

"The covers?" Chuck asked, diverting her attention back to what they had been talking about before.

"Right. Um, well you and Sarah are posing as DHS taking over the Carson case, after one of Peter's searches triggered an alert. Neal and Peter, you two will jointly work with them, though at this point Chuck and Sarah will handle observing Carson. I need you two, and Jones, for something else."

"What?" Jones looked afraid to ask, and she caught the worried look in Peter's eyes as well.

"You're going to be getting a laptop full of the dossier's of FBI agents working in the White Collar department, and the New York branch in general. I need you three to go through them; Neal the Intersect will help a lot here. But he doesn't have the inside information that you and Peter have, Jones. There's a traitor within the Bureau, and we need to find them before they find us."

"What's your job then?" Casey asked, gruffly.

"I'm the inside man."

"Woman." Neal corrected.

"Shut up." She rolled her eyes good naturedly. "I'm already stationed as a higher up's lover, what fun that is. He's the leader of the New York faction of the Ring."

"You know that for sure?" Peter asked.

"Considering I'm a member of the Ring and have participated in more than a few operations involving him, yes. I'm positive. We have enough evidence to convict him of treason if we wanted to."

"But why don't you?" El glanced at her in confusion.

"Because she wants to know how deep it goes," Neal replied, answering for Kate. "How bad the corruption really is."

"And then what?" Peter questioned him.

"And then we see where we go from there. The more of these bastards we can bring down the better." Looking around at the assembled crew, she continued, "Everyone got their missions? Good, go team."

She just hoped they didn't bring down themselves in the process.

* * *

"Remember, call me right away if you need anything." He looked into his wife's eyes and was relieved to see that while she seemed nervous, her gaze was hard as ice. "If I don't answer within an hour, call Neal or Sarah. If they don't answer, you call Hughes. Got it, hun?"

"Got it, hun," El repeated to him in the affirmative. She shot a glance over his shoulder, where Peter knew Neal was standing, waiting by the car. "Stay safe. You and Neal. Watch his back."

"What about my back?" he asked, teasingly indignant.

"I've already had this conversation with him. Without the…" she gestured with her head down to where he had his arms twined around her waist, and her own around his back. "Didn't want to give the poor guy more bruises."

He winced at that. He'd been witness to Neal getting his makeup done earlier, and the man's body bore more marks then it had the night before, the injuries developing akin to a film developing; more and more of the picture was revealed as time passed. It was rather horrifying. And painful he was sure, though Neal had said nothing about it. He certainly understood El's holding back from what he knew she desperately wanted to do- hug him.

"Probably for the best," he said. Then he pulled her into a tight hug. He wasn't sure how long it would be before he'd see her in person again, and be able to just hold her. He didn't want to dwell on that.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"I'll talk to you soon, yeah?"

He glanced at Neal, who was leaning against the car casually, trying not to listen in for which Peter was thankful. Damn the man though. For doing this to them, for this happening. He looked back at El, and gently brushed a stray hair away from her face.

"Yeah," he said, hoping his words were true.

* * *

"I never thought I'd see that expression on Bryce Larkin's face." Chuck watched the man, wide-eyed, as he sat in their new car waiting to drive with Peter to the Bureau.

"He really cares about them," Sarah said quietly. "I can see why. They're good for him."

"How are they taking it you think?"

"Elizabeth is taking it better than Peter, at the moment. He's had more contact with Bryce as Neal than she has, and from what I saw and heard, Peter understands, but he feels betrayed."

"Understandable," he said, then frowned. "I remember when I found out Bryce was a spy."

She glanced at him. "How did you feel?"

"Overwhelmed," he said after a short pause. "Of course I was on a rooftop with two highly trained government agents, and had red dots on my chest, so scared shitless is another phrase I'd use."

They watched as Peter hugged Elizabeth, and Chuck consciously forced himself not to lip read the man.

"Betrayal is a strong emotion," Sarah said quietly. "You think Burke can work through it and complete the mission?"

"Short answer? Yeah, he can do it."

"And the long one?"

"He'll work through it, and get the job done. But there are fractures in the trust between the two. I don't know what'll happen after this, but I can't see them working together like they did before. Dynamics have changed, and Peter can't deal with that yet."


End file.
